


The Top Hat Club

by LegoLock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Abuse, Attempted Murder, Blackmail, Crossdressing, Disturbing Themes, Explicit Language, Flashbacks, Forced Prostitution, Human Trafficking, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kidnapping, M/M, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sex, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Substance Abuse, Suggestive Themes, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 20:29:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 38,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LegoLock/pseuds/LegoLock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Welcome to The Top Hat Club...where your darkest desires are our pleasure..."<br/>It's a line that John Watson knows too well...he's been saying it every night for years. His spirit and pride have long since fled and he's resigned to his fate in the hands of his twisted boss, who strives to make John cry every single night. Until the night the daring light of a handsome young stranger penetrates his dark world. His hands don't make John shudder with revulsion and his words sooth John's personal loathing. But will his stranger rescue him from his torments...or will his rescuer leave him to die?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anniversary Special

**Author's Note:**

> So, there's a lot of warnings. Take them seriously because this is going to be some heavy duty not nice stuff. It's going to get gritty and dark and once you read it you can't unread it. The warnings are all there so if something sets you off then turn back now because it gets very horrible in that sense. So, you've been warned and I won't tell you again. If you read it and ignore the warnings and find something that sets you off you can't say you weren't warned. I've listed everything I can think of besides someone dying. So...last chance to turn back now, otherwise...welcome to the dark side...
> 
> (DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sherlock or the works...wish I did...but I don't)

John Watson stared forlornly into the mirror on his small, gaudy, vanity at the end of the long shared row. The lights were big and bright, feather boas hung here and there, wedged in the corner was a picture of him and several women posing in front of a statue...a memento from a holiday to Italy that the _Boss_ had paid for a few years ago. Make-up overflowed the small desk space before him. However...nestled in the mess, close to his mirror, was a very pricey bottle of red wine with a black ribbon tied in a decorative bow around the bottle's neck. A plain, white, card propped against it. A name, _Johnny Boy_ , was scrawled in beautiful cursive letters across the front.

It was from the Boss...a congratulations. It was his fifth year anniversary of being there of course. Tears welled in the depths of his grey eyes as he struggled to keep his composure. He knew the bastard just sent him things like that to rattle him...to remind him that he owned John. He curled his hand into his short and untidy blonde hair as he looked, once more, to the box in his lap. A simple piece of paper had been taped to the top with a few words written in the same beautiful cursive, _'Wear this!'_

He felt a delicate hand on his shoulder before someone pulled his silken blue robe back over the exposed flesh...over his old scar. “Happy Anniversary, Johnny...” A small cupcake with a single lit candle was placed on the desk in front of him.

“I hate anniversaries...” John mumbled, forcing back tears. “I told you not to do anything...” Lifting his head to look over his shoulder at the small group of women and men gathered behind him, totalling ten in all. They were his friends and his family.

“No one does, Johnny...not here. But I'll be damned if I'll let the Boss ruin everything. And...it's more of a thank you...you've been so much help.” A small woman with long dark hair said as her voice trembled. “I...I don't know what we'd do without you.” The others nodded and some sniffed back a tear or two of their own.

John felt his heart twinge, “Don't worry...I'm not going anywhere.” He sighed as he looked at them...they were scared and tired...some were on the verge of giving up hope. He knew that feeling, that breaking point. Some were newer faces...some were old companions that had been there for almost as long as John...most didn't stay more than a year or two though. They were there to pay off debts they owed to the Boss. And John made sure they did. He wasn't there for the same reason...and he never told them why, just helping them pay off their debt so they could get away from this place.

Slowly, he stood and pulled each one into a gentle hug, “Thank you...now...go get ready...the Boss will be here soon and you know what he's like if we're late.” The small group nodding and hurrying back to their own preparations. John plunked down in his chair and glanced to the cupcake with a sullen sigh, leaning over to blow out the flickering candle...

 

* * *

 

Almost nobody had ever heard of _The Top Hat Club..._ for good reason, too. It was a very private club for criminals of high status only. No common thief or thug would ever be allowed in, nor would they likely know about it either. It was this distinct lack of information that made Sherlock Holmes uncomfortable as he approached the almost too ordinary looking cafe in which this club was said to be. However, his discomfort was well hidden under a facade of suave confidence...and excitement. His bright blue eyes a stark contrast to his unkempt, yet somehow sexy, black hair that flopped down his forehead. He had donned a dark violet, silk, button-up shirt under his characteristic long, dark, coat...the collar of which he had turned up. He exuded confidence with every long, graceful, step he took.

It had taken him the better part of two years to get to this point, the point where he had been invited to the club. In those years, he'd worked relentlessly at becoming a ruthless, and cunning, criminal mastermind. Or at least having a very convincing cover as one. He was no criminal...he was a detective and this was his ongoing case, a case suggested by his brother. At first, Sherlock had declined, but the enticement of a good hard case finally wore him down and he relented. Agreeing to help Mycroft shed light on the mastermind behind a massive criminal web. And all signs pointed to this person where _The Top Hat Club_ was concerned.

Sherlock breezed into the cafe, walking casually to the till and slipping the invitation down on the counter, “What's the special?” It was all very cloak and dagger, kind of boring...but the lanky detective followed the instructions. Watching the clerk take up the invitation and slip it into the till.

“Blonde.” Jerking a thumb towards the side door. The dark haired detective moved towards it, pausing when the clerk spoke again. “Nice and smooth that one is...”

He hesitated for a fraction of a second and then nodded, pushing open the door and stepping into a stairwell that spiralled down out of sight. The door clicked shut behind him before he slowly started to make his way down, wondering what the clerk had been talking about. Certainly not coffee. An uncertain shudder threatened to escape him, but Sherlock tamped it down before he reached the bottom, pushing open the door and stepping into a world he couldn't have ever expected.

The room was posh and rather large. A fully functioning bar ran along the far wall, even at a glance Sherlock could tell they had several rare vintages of wine...and several other types of alcohol he was certain had been banned in most places. Various forms of sofas and chairs were placed around the room, all were leather and they alternated in black and white groupings. Various doors took up the back wall. In the very centre of the room was a small stage with a gleaming golden pole in the middle. And draped around the pole was a very naked woman. Settled around the stage were a handful of men, they were making idle chat over the low music. Mostly ignoring the woman that was elegantly twisting around the pole in a way Sherlock wasn't sure should be normal.

A small woman, in an appealingly revealing dress, greeted him. She had clearly been waiting by the door. “Welcome to _The Top Hat Club_...where your darkest desires are our pleasure.” She purred and strolled over to help the somewhat stunned detective shrug out of his coat. “This must be your first time.”

“That obvious?” Sherlock asked, dropping back into his carefully constructed character as he started to roll the sleeves of his shirt up.

The woman giggled and smiled, but Sherlock noticed the deadness to her eyes. Clearly she wasn't working there by her own free will. She gently hung his coat up on a rack with a few others. “All the first timers look like that when they come in.” She winked as she brought him into the room, “The Boss said to expect you, too. He said the first time is on the house.”

“He did mention something like that.” Sherlock nodded as they passed the stage, the woman dancing had the same uncaring look in her eyes as his greeter. “However, pleasure will have to wait. I'm here on business...”

“Yes...the Boss is waiting for you...” The woman smiled over her shoulder at him as she showed Sherlock to a door in the far corner. Knocking once before opening the door to allow Sherlock in. The lanky detective stepped into the dimly lit room, utterly unprepared for the sight that greeted him.

In the middle of the room was a man, hands trapped behind him with tight cuffs, on his knees. A blonde man dressed in sheer, lacy, red panties and matching stockings that were, at one point, held up with and equally lacy red garter belt. The left one was still being held up, but the right had slipped down around his knee. A tight, sheer, cherry red corset, trimmed in black, was askew on his torso and there was a ruby ribbon around his neck, which had been tied and retied several times based on the wrinkles in the fabric. It was like an invitation to unwrap a present...or a statement of ownership. His lips were painted with glistening red lipstick, most of which was now smudged.  A daring crimson eye eyeshadow didn't hide the beginnings of a bruise around one eye and along the side of his face. He was shaking and appeared to be on the verge of crying, his breath hitching and chest heaving. Red marks from rough hands marred the man's pale skin, dark bruises were starting to appear from under the makeup...and Sherlock could just see the scar on his shoulder through a heavily applied makeup there.

Standing nearly over top of the blonde man was the person Sherlock presumed was the _Boss_. He was tall and imposing. His eyes were dark and glinted wickedly in the dim lights. His hair was cropped short...definitely military in nature. He curled his fingers in the man's blonde hair as he stared over at Sherlock.

“Just in time...” He ground out roughly and motioned Sherlock to sit, “We were just getting to the good part of the meeting.” The detective slowly sat, hearing faint chuckles from the dark shadows in the room. “Now, love...” He growled as he wrenched the blonde man's head back sharply, “Go introduce yourself _nice and proper_ to our new friend.” All but throwing the man towards Sherlock.

The blonde hit the floor at Sherlock's feet with a short cry of pain, shaking as he struggled to get back to his knees. The detective fought to remain impassive towards the scene, unwilling to blow all his hard work for just one man. A man who barely made it to his knees before his boss shoved a rough foot into his back to pin him between Sherlock's knees against the chair. A whimper escaped his trembling lips, his eyes clenching shut as he tried to hold back a sob.

“Well? _Hurry up!_ ” The Boss growled, grinding his heel into the man's back...making him squirm.

“W-Welcome...” He gasped through the pain, “Welcome to... _Th-The Top Hat...Club-b..._ I...I'm Jo...I'm John...” The man was struggling, shaking his head as if to say he couldn't do it.

The Boss scowled and gripped a handful of blonde hair to pull his head back again, “Say it. Right. _Now._ ” Forcing the man to stare up into Sherlock's eyes.

Tears brimmed in his eyes as he trembled, “I...I'm J-John. Can I...s-suck your...cock, S-Sir?” He managed to stammer out through his hitching breaths, another round of chuckles breaking out throughout the room.

The Boss caressed his cheek, “There that wasn't so hard...was it, _Johnny Boy_?”

Sherlock stared into those tortured, pained, eyes and wondered how many times the man, John, had been forced to say and do that, and more, that night. By the state of his makeup and how close he was to breaking down into tears, it had been too many to count.

“He'll do it...if you like? One of the nicest mouths in the club...”

“No...thank you.” Sherlock said smoothly, trying to ignore the whimpering man between his knees, “Don't enjoy being watched.”

The Boss shrugged as he slung John back into the middle of the room, “Your loss.” Strolling towards John to press a foot down on the back of his neck to keep him pinned down. John let out a sound that could have been a sob, his ass stuck up in the air and his hands clenched into tight fists. “It's a special day, Johnny Boy...it's your fifth year anniversary at the club.” John trembled, “I think that warrants a celebration...so, who wants to fuck this useless whore first?”

Sherlock swallowed as John made a terrible wet noise of terror...or pleading. “N-no...no more...pl-please...I can't...”

The Boss glared down at him, “What did you say? Did I _say_ you could speak?” Removing his foot only to savagely drive it into John's exposed ribs. The blonde man yelped, “Two at a time, boys...” The shadow figures laughing and moving in as the Boss motioned for Sherlock to follow him out of the room. Sherlock's last sight of John was of the man's panties being pulled down his shaking legs, a single tear rolling down his face and the hopeless resignation of someone who'd given up a long time ago shining in the depths of his eyes.


	2. Broken Hope

John clenched his eyes tightly as he came awake to the familiar sensation caused by the vigorous _“celebrations”_. His throat was raw...and so was another portion of his anatomy he was trying to desperately ignore. A flood of emotions brought a sob to his throat in response as he struggled to forget the latest brutal gang-bang that certainly was going to leave him bleeding for days to come. Another sob broke in his chest as he realized he'd been moved at some point, perhaps after he'd passed out...perhaps not. It didn't matter when really.

All that mattered was he was back in the dressing room, lying on his side...on his mattress...on the floor. There was something warm over his body...warm and soft. He assumed it was a blanket, but he didn't have one that was as soft as whatever was draped over him. But, again, he wasn't about to complain about it or think long on it. The cuffs had been removed at some point, cuffs he had savagely been pulling against with the hopeful intent of making his wrists bleed. The pain of the sharp, biting, metal was meant to take his mind off the pain of his body being roughly abused. He could feel a dull throbbing ache from each wrist suggesting he'd at least made them very raw if not bloody. Thankfully, the horrible outfit he'd been forced to wear was gone. Maybe it had been torn off during the celebrations, John could no longer recall. He wasn't trying very hard to either.

Tears leaked down his face, squeezing through his eyelids even though he tried to stop them. He wanted to...but he couldn't. He hurt everywhere and his emotions were frayed. The sobs weren't too far behind and in seconds he was bawling in earnest. He cursed through a sob as trembles started to work through his resolve, he was a pitiful sight and though he silently begged for no one to see him...he knew there were others nearby. He could hear them. Obviously the club had closed down for the night, the music wasn't throbbing in the background, so that would mean everyone was there and everyone was watching. John curled in on himself, trying to hide, to escape the eyes he could feel on his shaking form. Much to his distress, soft scurrying feet shuffled over to his side. It was one of the ladies...he didn't know which and at that point he didn't really care. She tried to sooth him, but her touch made him flinch.

“ _ **D-don't!”**_ John snapped hoarsely, sounding more desperate than he would have liked. “Don't t-touch me. Pl-please...please don't.”

“I-I'm sorry, Joh—”

“ _Stop.”_ The command wasn't shouted, but the tone was authoritative and belonged to a voice John had heard only a few hours ago, or he assumed it was hours.

John turned his head and opened his tearful eyes, utterly stunned to see the dark haired stranger standing only a few feet away. Behind him John's small band of companions watched nervously, gathered in a fidgeting group at the edge of their long row of vanities. But they didn't come any closer.

The stranger was staring intently and evenly at the woman who was kneeling next to John. “Leave.”

“B-but I was j-just—”

“You were just leaving.” He said evenly, waiting patiently for her to slowly get up and nervously edge her way around him and back to the grouped others. He turned his head just slightly to observe the group. _“Leaving.”_ He reiterated, the small group of concerned young men and women scurrying without a second glance at John.

John shuddered as the even gaze slowly turned to him, he pressed back against the stone cold wall and tried to contain a whimper. He didn't know who the man was, except that he hadn't taken John's forced offer...which was unusual. Even more unusual was having a _“client”_ back in the dressing room. Every inch of his skin crawled and he wanted to desperately escape the closeness of the man. Much to his discomfort, the handsome stranger moved closer and knelt down next to his mattress. He didn't say anything...just watching John squirm under his gaze. Then, slowly, he held up a damp looking cloth. He didn't attempt to move it closer to John, just offering it to him at a somewhat respectful distance.

The blonde man hesitated, hiccoughing as he struggled to tamp down the emotionally distressed sounding sobs, and then slowly reached out to take the exquisitely warm hand towel. John slowly pulled the cloth back, pressing it to his face without a second thought and scrubbing at the make-up and tears. He could feel the sting of bruises that were forming and a cut on his swollen lower lip, but they were the least of his pains. The man lingered, watching John scrubbing until he was certain his face would be raw. He really wanted a shower...but he could hardly fathom moving given how sore he was. A shower would just have to wait...

“I'm Sherlock.” The stranger’s calm voice cut through his thoughts, making him shudder uncertainly and stop his furious scrubbing to turn teary eyes towards him again. “I'm sure you don't want me here, but you want to be handled by your companions even less. They would, and I assume have in the past, only make things worse. You won't believe me, but I'm not here to hurt you. In fact...I'm the one who brought you back here.” He gestured subtly towards John, making the blonde man hesitantly look towards his covered form. A shudder raced through his body as he finally recognized what he was covered by... _a coat._ A very nice coat. “Yes, that's mine. I was told you don't have a blanket...at the moment. Something about it being taken away for some reason. I admit I wasn't paying much attention to the nattering twits that mobbed me when I stepped in here with you in my arms.” Sherlock's blunt monologue actually helped John settle some, he still wanted to break down crying and never move again, but at least the sobs were more manageable. “I would have offered to help you to the showers, but—”

“Pl-please.” John gasped through a soft hitching breath. “I'm dying...to shower.”

Sherlock seemed surprised, his brow arched thoughtfully as he considered the shaking blonde man with the intensity of a predator observing prey. John's skin crawled, but he would endure the touch of a stranger versus having the touch of his companions tainted by his post-anniversary state. He wasn't sure he trusted Sherlock...but given what the man had already proven to John in his refusal earlier he seemed a little more trustworthy than most.

“Right! Let's get you up then...” Sherlock nodded, hesitating a fraction of a second before he moved to help John get up.

John tried not to flinch as Sherlock's nimble hands neared him. He couldn't help but tense and anticipate pain...or roving hands. A tear streaked down his cheek as he closed his eyes and tried to breath deeply and calm himself. Sherlock seemed to wait for him to do so, then he gently helped the man to sit up. Propping him up carefully so he could pull the dark warm coat around his body. Helping him slip shaking arms into the too long sleeves before he let John hold it closed with one hand. Helping preserve what little modesty John had left. It was a small thing for Sherlock, John was sure, but it meant so much to the blonde man.

Sherlock helped him to his feet, having to stoop to allow John to put his other arm over his slender shoulders. The man was much taller than John first thought and it was slightly awkward to shuffle along, especially given that Sherlock was trying not to bump into him. The man was trying to avoid touching John as much as he could and John could have cried out of gratitude. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had cared about what he wanted.

However, as much as John didn't want to be touched, he found Sherlock's contact to be somewhat...different. It wasn't exactly tender like his companions might offer...but it certainly wasn't rough like a client...or the Boss. It wasn't entirely indifferent either, like the thugs that usually had to pick him up off the floor after nights like his anniversary. John swallowed back a fearful noise, readjusting his grip so he held the man around the waist...pressing against the lithe form experimentally.

The dark haired man faltered minutely, his bright eyes cutting towards John with a curious look as he straightened slowly and resumed his helping. Putting a strong arm around John's torso to maintain his support of the blonde's shaking form. John was surprised that the contact didn't add to his disgust...it didn't make his skin absolutely crawl and it certainly didn't make him try to pull away. It was...oddly comforting.

It seemed to take forever to get to the small shower room, it reminded John of a high school locker room really. A single bench across from a short row of lockers, all of which were opposite the tiled shower area. Sherlock helped John slowly walk to a showerhead near a corner, so he could use the walls for support, and stepped back slowly. He left John feeling very unsteady without the strong support of his tall, handsome, rescuer. John stared back at him for a moment, surprised again when Sherlock turned his face away and held out his hand for the coat.

“I'll find a towel.”

John sniffed quietly and nodded, slowly removing the long coat and handing it over. Watching the man's body turn without glancing back to John, giving the blonde what little privacy he could...allowing him some sort of modesty. It was a gesture John was unaccustomed to...so used to being stared during his years with the Boss. It was a gesture that could have made him cry, but instead he watched Sherlock exit the shower before he turned on the water.

The initial blast of ice cold water made him gasp, but it was quickly replaced by ever hotter water when John twisted the tap several times. It was nearly searing hot and almost painful to the touch when he stopped. But John didn't reach to cool it or to step back. He needed to feel the burn...he needed to feel like it would help. He leaned heavily against the wall under the burning spray, gasping back sobs. His skin still crawled and he could still feel the rough hands on him, the scraping of calluses along his soft sides. He could still feel the desperately painful thrusts that had jarred his whole body against the floor repeatedly. He could still feel the shame of his own unwelcome arousal...one that had been exploited. _“Oh you like that do you?”_ The voices echoed in the back of his mind, refusing to be silent.

John usually could suppress them...usually could manage to avoid breaking down like that. But...the Boss always strove to make it impossible on his anniversary. He wanted John to break and crumble...he wanted John to remember that he owned him and whatever he said John did. Tears mixed with the burning hot water as John choked on another set of painful sobs, his body screaming for him to get out of the water...but he stayed put. Refusing to move one inch.

“I'm fairly certain that's too hot.” Sherlock's voice rumbled behind him, too close behind him.

John didn't know how the man had managed to enter so quietly, but he didn't lift his head from the spray. He tensed visibly and took a deep, shaking, breath. “So what if it is?”

Sherlock offered no response, instead his pale hand entered the spray to turn the tap gently. The water cooled, but John didn't protest. The water remained mostly hot, but no longer to the level which might eventually make his skin burn off. Sherlock's arm lingered until John finally nodded and allowed Sherlock to turn the water off. The dark haired man then offered the promised towel, which John took and slowly wrapped around his hips with a sigh.

“Thanks...” John managed to mumble, feeling at least slightly less disgusted with himself now that he was...cleaner.

Sherlock nodded and offered an arm for John to take, kind of like an old fashioned gentleman would offer a lady. He supposed it was less embarrassing than clinging to the man's side, but he couldn't deny that being pressed to Sherlock's side had felt...rather good. None the less, John took the offered arm so they could slowly make their way back to his bed. He left a dripping trail, but no one would care.

“It might surprise you to know that you'll be seeing a lot more of me in the coming weeks. It seems I passed some sort of test, which proved me trustworthy enough to watch this club while the Boss is out of town on various business trips.” Sherlock said as they walked along, passing the vanities where the other were watching from as they finished cleaning up for the night. “At first I thought it was a bit odd, allowing a near stranger to take over, but it occurred to me that your boss will have been watching me long before I ever arrived at this point. I suppose I showed promise.”

John nodded as they arrived at his mattress, “Makes sense...I guess.” Hesitating before slowly letting go of his strong, helpful, handsome, stranger and lowering himself onto his hard mattress. Lying on his side with a wince. He was exhausted...emotionally and physically. He still felt like crying...but for the moment he was just tired. Sherlock stood over him, watching him until his eyelids started to droop. His presence wasn't at all unwelcome...and in fact, John found it a pleasant change to the usual overbearing coddling of his companions. They meant well, but often times reacted too much for John to take. The stand off-ish and slightly commanding aura that lingered around Sherlock was exactly what John needed when he was completely out of sorts. He was on the cusp of sleep, the point where it was inevitable that he would fall into dreams...or nightmares, when a warm and soft fabric settled over his body.

Sherlock's coat. It was an oddly comforting thing, one that didn't disturb his trip to oblivion like most other things would. He curled a hand into the fabric, clinging to it like a life line. It was a life line...the only one he'd seen in several years. And though he'd sworn never to get his hopes up in that place...he could feel the smallest spark struggle to life in the back of his mind. Maybe...Sherlock **_could_ ** save him. _But, would he?_


	3. Practice Makes Perfect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very sorry about the wait lovelies! I do have to battle with life and projects as well as this, but I promise I won't leave you with an unfinished story and I promise everything will become clear as the plot unfolds!

As he often did, John was once again staring into the mirror of his vanity. This time he was examining the bruising on the side of his face and around his eye. It was still quite obvious, given that it had only been a few days since he'd gotten them, but in time they would fade completely...as they always did. The blonde man sighed and closed his eyes, trying not to think too long on how he'd gotten these latest bruises. He needed to focus on work...not his fragile emotional walls that he was diligently building back up.

The dressing room doors snapped open as a devastatingly gorgeous woman strolled in, “Guess who?” She purred in a tone absolutely dripping with seduction.

“ _Lady Adler!”_ Several of the young woman cried out as they rushed to greet her, happy to see Irene Adler.

She was a patron of the club and sort of a partner. She helped _“train”_ the performers. And who was better than a manipulative dominatrix? For the most part...John didn't mind her. She was pleasant enough on most days, so long as you didn't piss her off. And usually she was the one who offered comfort after John's anniversary’s or other hard days. She was dressed in the strictest way possible that day. Her long, dark, hair was pulled back into a tight bun and her lips were a dark shade of red. Her dress was very business-like, but ultimately it was sexy and short and looked like it had been painted on her perfect figure. Her heels were high and dark. As always, in one hand she fondled her usual crop...the other hand was behind her back and John suspected she was hiding something.

John remained at his vanity, barely giving her a glance as he pulled his silken robe closed and resumed his sullen staring. She grinned and greeted her small group of admirers; diligently listening to their enthusiastic introductions, as there were some new faces, as well as the usual praise about how nice she was looking. Irene was nice to them, unlike most of the clients or other thugs and criminals who worked there. She also helped one or two get away when she could. Irene was one of the only people John knew of that didn't agree with how the entertainers were _“hired”._

After about ten minutes of excited gossip, she took control of the little group. “Alright!” A sharp snap of of the crop stilled the chatter. “Get the practice poles out and go warm up! We have work to do!” Her voice was pleasant and kind, but commanding. The others nodded and quickly filed out of the dressing room, leaving John alone with Irene.

“Oh John...” She sighed as she slowly strolled down the long line of mirrors, turning his face with a gentle touch on his chin. “Look at you.” She frowned and gently stroked her thumb over his slightly swollen lip, making him wince subtly. “I wish you would let me talk to him about this. I'm sure I could convince him to leave a little less bruising.”

John pulled away from her hand, finding it didn't sooth him as it usually did. “You know it won't stop him...and it's not like it's a regular thing anyway. For most of the year I remain _pleasantly_ unbruised.” He offered a forced grin as if it was no big deal. It was actually one of the better anniversaries in terms of the outcome. Irene had seen him in worse condition in the years she had known him.

Irene pursed her lips and sighed, retracting her hand with an odd look before she smiled again. “I brought you something.” Bringing her other hand from around her back to present John with a smallish parcel wrapped in brown paper.

John swallowed as he stared at the parcel and then up into Irene's face. “I...I don't have enough to pay for that much, Irene.”

“A gift. A late gift for your anniversary.”

He really did wish people would stop referring to his anniversary like it was something to celebrate, but he nodded and took the parcel with trembling fingers. “How long will you be gone then?” She clearly meant to be away if she was giving him this much.

The woman tapped her fingers on John's desk, toying with some of his make-up after a moment. “A few months. I have some business to attend to that is taking me out of the country. But as soon as I get back I'll visit to check up on you.” Leaning over to press a soft kiss to his brow as she smoothed her other hand through his hair.

She always did those things...touched him so kindly and spoke to him so smoothly. She had always looked after John as best as she could and John had always responded to her kindness before. But her touch was...different...it wasn't unpleasant or unwelcome, but it wasn't soothing to John as it had always been in the past. Her words...didn't make him feel better. But the blonde man forced himself to offer his expected response. Forced himself to look up gratefully into her placid eyes and perfect face and offer a small nod. He didn't want her to see his decimated emotions or his uncertainty. So he closed his eyes and let her pull his face gently into her soft abdomen, stroking her fingers in his hair as he just breathed calmly and tried to find that same soothing presence Irene had offered before.

Commanding as she was, Irene did have a softer side which was reserved for the most wounded souls in the club. She was the one hopeful ray of light most of the others idolized, John might have at one point...but he couldn't remember what it was like to hope. He sighed deeply and gently pulled away from her, murmuring a soft thanks and reaching to rub at his moist eyes. She stroked his cheek before she straightened and turned to head out of the dressing room, “Do hurry out, John. I won't tolerate tardiness, even from you!”

John knew she didn't mean it, it was all part of her personality. The teasing and the commanding. He smiled faintly as she exited the dressing room, leaving John alone for a few precious moments. He turned the parcel over in his hands and nodded to himself before he tucked it up in the underside of his desk, in a small secret nook he'd made some years ago. It wasn't like it mattered if it was found by the Boss, but John didn't want to share the contents with the others...as selfish as that was. Once he was certain it was out of sight, he slowly shrugged out of his robe and stooped to pick up a rumpled black t-shirt from the floor as well as a pair of loose shorts. He winced at the angry looking bruise on his ribcage and stiffly worked the shirt over his head. Slowly, he pulled on the shorts and then padded, barefoot, out to the main room.

The back portion of the vast club was mostly bare, except for furniture, so they practised there. They cleared the chairs and sofas out of the area and brought in a few large standing mirrors to prop against the wall before they retrieved portable poles that could essentially be put up anywhere. Sometimes they were used for club events where there was a large crowd, but mostly they were used for practice.

John moved to help, but Irene caught him by the arm and tapped her crop on his chest. “Don't even think about it. I saw how you were sitting...you're going to stretch and maybe do a little light work.”

“What are you, my mother?” John huffed as he shrugged her off, “I'm fine...please...”

He needed the physical labour...he needed to feel the pain in his body lest he be reminded of the pain in his mind. His voice probably sounded pleading, because her face fell just slightly and she let him go. She knew he was inflicting the pain purposefully, but she didn't say a word. John lingered a moment before he turned to help with the set up.

Irene watched, snapping her fingers for one of the young men to fetch her a chair and a drink from the bar. A fine crystal wine glass filled just right with a very expensive wine. “Now...I'm not paid to watch you go through the motions. I'm paid to make you _seductive_ so you can make more money. Remember...it's not about _how much_ skin you show, my lovelies, it's about _what_ skin you show and _how_ you show it. So...go on then, seduce me.” Irene purred with a feline smile, her eyes lighting up with the greatest pleasure as she observed them trying their best to do what she wanted.

John didn't jump into the action right away. He did take some time to stretch, loosening some of the stiffness from his body as well as aggravating some of the sore spots. He bit his lip as he stretched over his bruised ribs, savouring the tingling ache that raced through his chest and along his spine. He loathed that he was intentionally doing it...but it helped keep his inner demons at bay. It was worth it...in John's mind.

Irene's eyes rolled, at about the twenty minute mark, and she gained her feet to walk among them to give them pointers here and there. She was very particular and occasionally she tapped her crop against someone's flesh to reiterate a point that they had been told and subsequently failed to execute. But her hits were never harsh and her instructions were never belittling, though she threw in the occasional jab in good fun. It helped to ease the mood and make them forget, for a short time, that they were basically bought and paid for property with no rights or lives.

The blonde man continued to stretch, mostly to appease Irene. As much as he wanted to join in...he knew he didn't need to practice. Pole dancing was one thing John had become very good at in his years of service. It had become his escape...his brief moment where he had power over his life again, where he had control. And he _loved_ it. He loved making criminal scumbags dive for their wallets to try and keep him on stage...he loved knowing that he made them squirm. It seemed like such a trivial thing to be proud of, but John was willing to take what he could get after so many years of being controlled by someone else.

“Take five everyone! John, come over here.” Irene's voice cutting through John's pain hazed thoughts. He sighed and moved over to Irene as the woman strolled casually to her chair to pick up her wine glass. “Sit.” She commanded after taking her seat and gesturing to the floor at her feet. John sighed and slowly sat at her feet, closing his eyes when she laid her hand on his shoulder. Her long, strong, fingers started to press into his tensed muscles, poking and prodding. “You know I don't approve of you hurting yourself...I told you I would be more than happy to do it for you.”

John nodded, “I know...” Hissing as she dug her fingers into a tender bruise sharply. “Maybe one day I'll let you...but not today.” Her hand trailing away from the bruise to rest on his neck. John sighed gently, keeping his head down and eyes closed as he sought the soothing effects of Irene's touch once more. But it still felt...not quite right. At least the stretching had helped by making his body buzz with a heady throb of pain.

Irene's hand left his neck as she straightened to resume her teaching, but she made a pleasant noise of surprise instead. “Well, you must be the new recruit... _Sherlock_.”

The blonde man's head snapped up and around, taking in the sight of the handsome man as he strolled across the club. Sherlock was in a black, tailored, somewhat casual, suit jacket and a very pristine white shirt. He walked with a confident and casual stride, flashing a handsome smile as he approached Irene.

“You must be Miss Adler...I've heard a great deal about you.” Taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles in the most gentlemanly fashion, but his actions seemed slightly forced and not very genuine...or at least John thought so.

The woman smiled wolfishly, “Oh really? All the _naughty_ bits, I do hope.”

Sherlock gave her a slow smirk, but offered no response. Instead he glanced to the watchful performers...and briefly to John. “I was told you'd be here today and thought I'd stop by to see if you had any secrets to a successful career at this club.” He casually put his hands into his pockets, “I do hope I'm not interrupting anything...”

“Of course not! You've arrived just in time, actually.” Irene purred as she gestured to her chair, “We could always use a captive audience to practice on.”

John hesitantly scurried to join the other performers, uncertain about how he felt about the man. He was...pleased to see him again and extremely nervous. He could still feel the man's hands on his body...the strong hands that hadn't hurt him or made him feel utterly disgusted. They had been helpful and kind...and Sherlock's presence had been so settling. John chewed his lip, using the pain to draw his thoughts away from the first night he'd met Sherlock. He didn't want to admit it...but he was more pleased to see Sherlock than Irene, even though he'd known Irene so much longer.

Irene was speaking and the others were preforming, John kept to the back to avoid being noticed...though in a group of ten people it wouldn't be hard to see John standing stock-still. He was trying to sort out his feelings towards the dark haired man who was sitting in the chair and watching them. Though...his bright blue eyes were focused on John. The blonde swallowed hard and trembled, looking away sharply. He couldn't decide if he was afraid of Sherlock...or...something else more unsettling. He tried not to think about it, staring anywhere but at Sherlock.

Irene's voice once more cut through his thoughts sharply, drawing his attention to her. “Look at you...you're not even excited a little bit.”

Sherlock shrugged gently, “It takes a very specific sort to get a rise out of me, Miss Adler...I'm sure they're perfectly adequate at tempting the common criminal.”

Irene nodded as if she agreed, her eyes lingering on the group before she waved for them to step to the sides. She pointed at John. “John, if you would be so kind...could you please show them how it's done?”

John's mind when blank, his body was rigid as the group parted to expose him. Did she have any idea what she was doing to him? Knowing Irene...she knew exactly what she was doing. Sherlock seemed a bit uncertain, watching John with a passive expression that bordered on discomfort. He knew John was still healing...and he knew John was still fighting emotional pain. He had seen John at his very worst. And yet there was no pity in the depths of Sherlock's blue eyes, only a strange intensity that John couldn't quite name.

It seemed an eternity before John managed to nod mutely and make his way to one of the poles in the front, nearest to Sherlock. Everyone watched silently, very aware of John's skills. They were ever eager to have him preform...which usually flattered the man, but now he was slightly uncomfortable. Irene watched, perched behind Sherlock with a devilish grin. It was almost too much...John almost felt his walls start to crumble again. But he tamped down the unsettled emotions with a deep breath and wrapped his fingers around the cool metal pole.

As soon as his skin contacted the metal...the world seemed to fall away. He couldn't hear the shuffling of the others and he didn't feel their staring eyes. He didn't even acknowledge Irene's eager grinning face...his whole focus became the dark haired man in the chair. John's body changed, the stiffness suddenly replaced with fluid seduction. His hips rolled and his back arched as he lifted his chin to give the man a searing once over before he strutted smoothly around the pole.

Any and all embarrassment he might have felt was lost as John draped himself against the solid pole, curling his arm over his head and around the pole before he whipped around to gracefully ease his body off the ground. He didn't feel the pain of bruises or protest of sore muscles when he wrapped his legs around the pole and let go. Falling back in a graceful arch before he lowered himself onto his back, casting Sherlock another searing glance. The lanky man's eyes were fixed on John...following his every move intently.

John dabbed his tongue at this lips as he rolled over and pressed his back to the pole, slowly working his way back to his feet, his hands travelling over his body before they arched over his head to wrap around the pole. His hips twisting in the most suggestive manner. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back with a breathy moan. Turning and looping one leg around the pole before shooting Sherlock yet another saucy glance over his shoulder. Appreciating the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as the dark haired man swallowed.

The blonde man eased his way off the pole, confidently strutting right up to Sherlock and straddling his lap on an impulse. It wasn't something uncommon in the club, but John didn't usually practice interactions with clients, unless they paid for it. John caught his lower lip in his teeth as he ground against the man's lap, pressing himself closer to Sherlock's face. John's lips just barely caressed Sherlock's before he pulled away with a wink and slipped off the man's lap. Leaving Sherlock looking dazed and frazzled as he strolled back to the pole. Once he reached it...the world slowly came back to him. He could hear the smattering of applause from his companions and Irene praising him...

John panted, the ache of his body renewing tenfold...but a new pain in his groin added to his misery. He didn't turn around, unable to look at Sherlock as he released the pole to turn and hurriedly retreat into the dressing room. The last thing he needed was Sherlock, or anyone else, to see the tear rolling down his cheek. He could hear Irene calling after him, but he didn't look back. “I need some air!” Was all he offered in a terrified and shaking tone, leaving his companions worried and confused...and leaving Sherlock wonder struck...


	4. Cold Memories

Irene swiftly regained control of the group before they went after John, the last thing he needed was ten worried companions rushing after him. He needed some space. Sherlock forced himself to remain in the chair and forced himself to appear passive. Though it was hard to hide the fact that John had set his mind racing when he'd straddled him. The man could really move...more than Sherlock had given him credit for.

As Irene got the others back to work, Sherlock's hands slowly started to form a thoughtful steeple under his chin. The blonde man wasn't exactly a mystery...but there were things about him that Sherlock didn't fully see or understand. He knew John was a former solider by the way he built mental walls up and by the way his eyes betrayed his loathing when those walls broke down. He said 'sir' with longing and hatred, like he despised using it around people that didn't deserve it. Sherlock also knew John was a doctor by the scars on his body...not scars inflicted by “clients” or the Boss. And the scar in his shoulder was clearly an old bullet wound that had put him out of commission. However, there were other scars...and they were careful and exact. John was causing himself pain, very specific pain. Physical pain to override a mental pain. 

Sherlock couldn't say he blamed John for his actions, the man seemed to be a favourite to torment among the clientele. His bruised body was weary and worn, it was a wonder the man wasn't a basket case in general. But, John was stubborn...there was still a tiny rebellious streak in him, even though he'd been in his current state for five years at the least. Though, Sherlock suspected it had been longer than five. 

The detective closed his eyes with a silent sigh as he thought back on the night he'd met John. It wasn't pleasant and Sherlock had tried quite hard to erase it almost as soon as he'd left the club. He'd not been successful. He could recall the small man pressing against him, at first for support...but then for something more. Sherlock wasn't sure he would call it comfort, but it was something close to that. It had baffled him, frankly, that a man so terrified of his companions, and of most other clients, had allowed a complete stranger to help him. Sherlock had, at first, assumed it was because John preferred the contact of a stranger in those first distressing moments post...torture. But now, he wasn't sure. Especially since John had just given him such an amazing display of just how seductive the male body, though battered, could be.

The dark haired man was truly stunned when he watched the stiff, sore, weary man turn into a prowling, fluid, creature of seduction. Sherlock didn't claim to be a man interested in people as a general rule, but something in the way John had watched him was enough to shatter his careful control for a fraction of a second. That was when the blonde had straddled him. By the faces the others made, John didn't typically do such things...which puzzled Sherlock even more. His thoughts whirled maddeningly without offering any real answers. 

An irritated noise escaped him as something tapped his cheek, drawing him out of his thoughts to the present. Irene stood calmly before him, observing him with the intensity of a predator. Or a protective mother bear. She had her crop against his cheek, tapping it gently in a thoughtful sort of way.

“You're _the_ _one_ then?” Irene purred as she rolled her eyes over him again, taking him in once more with a more intense sort of scrutiny. “The one who helped John a few nights ago?”

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded as he reached one hand to try and remove the supple leather from his face, getting a swift swat to the back of his hand before the crop came to rest under his chin.

Irene tilted his head up so she could stare quite intently into his eyes, “Be careful with him...humanity is not something John has been a part of for some time.”

Sherlock's nostrils flared and his lips thinned before he stood abruptly and smoothed down his coat. He had no witty remarks for her words, in fact they had only added to his desire to seek out John...and, hopefully, answers. Sherlock brushed by her and headed for the dressing room without a backward glance. 

It wasn't hard to figure out where John was...all the lights were out, but the water was running in the showers. Sherlock approached, slowing when he reached the doorway. He wasn't surprised to see John in the corner, he wasn't surprised to see the man hadn't undressed. John was sitting in the spray with his legs curled up to his chest and his head resting on his knees. Judging by the lack of steam and the way John was shivering, the water was freezing cold. One hand was held away from the falling water, clutching a shaking cigarette with damp fingers. 

John heard him approach, but when he lifted his head it wasn't to look at Sherlock. It was so he could lean just slightly out of the cold water to take a shaking pull on the cigarette. A note of shame lingered in his eyes, but he savoured the lungful of smoke before he retreated into the water and released it through a shiver. Sherlock hadn't pegged John as a habitual smoker... 

Sherlock stepped towards the man, carefully of course. John still didn't look at him, but his other hand defiantly reached overhead and gripped the tap to keep it on. He knew Sherlock wouldn't turn the water off, but he might try to turn it to something less numbing. John's body was pleasantly numb and he wanted to remain that way for as long as he could manage. Though he had likely stayed in far too long already, given how violently he was shivering. The lanky man sighed, John was being stubborn. As much as Sherlock didn't want to force him, he wasn't about to sit back and let the man freeze himself to death. So, Sherlock turned and shed his jacket. Being sure he emptied his pant pockets before he turned back to John with a determined, yet passive, expression. 

“Fine.” Was all Sherlock said before he approached John and stepped into the ice cold shower.

The initial shock ripped a gasp from Sherlock's lips and he had to fight his body's instincts to pull away. Instead, he leaned over John and pressed his hands against the slick tile to keep himself in place. The water coursed over his back and shoulders...mostly sparing John from the relentless chill that would probably lead to him loosing body parts if he didn't get out of the water.

John stared up with wide eyes, shocked and frightened. He'd anticipated Sherlock hurting him...or forcing him out. Instead, Sherlock was shielding him from the cold water. John's throat constricted painfully as he looked away, trying not to acknowledge the kindness in the act. Sherlock could have just as easily pulled him out of the water by force, which John was used to, but instead...he was letting John maintain control over when he chose to leave. The only thing he was denying John was hypothermia. He shivered more and moved to take another puff from the cigarette, trying to ignore Sherlock. The blonde man fought back the chatter of his teeth as he huffed smoke from his nose in stuttering fits. He could feel tears rising to his eyes and he desperately wished Sherlock would hit him...he wished the man would yell at him..he wished Sherlock would force him out...he wished the man would do anything but treat him like a human being. 

“G-go....a-aw-away...” John stammered through chattering teeth.

“N-no.” Sherlock hissed, starting to shiver quite violently himself, determined to stay put until either he passed out...or John relented. “N-not unless y-you come with m-me.”

John stared up at him again, his hand defiantly remained on the tap. But his constitution was weakening. He was fighting emotions, memories, and physical pains...not to mention he was used to his role at the bottom of the totem pole and he didn't have too much fight in him when it came down to it. Sherlock was having trouble focusing on John with ice cold water soaking him, but he refused to budge and allow John to resume his sulking in the shower. John moved to take another desperate, distracting, pull on the cigarette.

“W-would-d y-y-you m-mind...?” Sherlock managed to stammer out with a meaningful glance at the cigarette. 

At first, John seemed reluctant and extremely nervous...but he slowly lifted his quivering hand, mindful of the water, and placed the cigarette to Sherlock's lips. The detective took a slow drag before allowing John to reclaim it, holding the lungful as long as he dared before releasing it in a breathy sigh of content. 

“N-not a b-b-bad selection...b-bit surprised y-you smoke th-though.”

Shame filled John's whole body and he choked on his own short intake of smoke, looking at the cigarette disdainfully like he would give anything not to be smoking it. So, it was a habit he'd been forced to pick up. A habit which was a reminder to John that he didn't own his own body. If Sherlock had to guess, John hadn't accepted smoking easily. He could see John fighting it violently...and being absolutely beaten senseless until he couldn't fight back anymore. Until all he could do was take it. Like everything else he had endured to make him into the trembling mess of a man he was now.

John's fingers clenched on the tap, pretending to not have heard Sherlock as he swiftly changed the subject back to their battle. “I-I'm n-not t-turning th-th-the ta-tap off-f.”

“Th-then we'll b-both b-b-be here a wh-while.” Sherlock gasped raggedly through clenched teeth, trying to keep them from clattering together, and fixed John with a very determined stare.

His gaze was met with equal determination and pleading, John was desperate to be allowed to continue...Sherlock might have even called it a form of defiance. John wasn't entirely broken then...maybe he still had a fighting chance, if he could just get away from his prison. John's hand trembled on the tap before his gaze dropped, slowly he shut the water off with a defeated sigh that sounded closer to a sob. He was beginning to thaw...and so was the icy wall he'd formed around his ragged emotions. 

Sherlock was relieved when John turned off the water, he was already numb and it hadn't been but a few moments. Who know how long John had been torturing himself? How long he'd been sitting there in the cold, dark, shower room trying to make his pain go away? Sherlock remained in place, staring down at the man that was breaking before his very eyes. Yet he couldn't bring himself to feel pity for him, or at least not the same kind of pity his companions would show by coddling him until he was a blubbering mess. John didn't need to be coddled...but he did need to be handled with care. He was a man on the very edge being permanently destroyed and it would hardly take much to do it. 

“W-why...?” John's voice was ragged as he struggled to meet Sherlock's eyes. “W-why m-me?”

“B-because...s-soliders don't b-belong in cl-clubs like th-this.” 

John stared up with horror and shock. How had Sherlock known he was a solider? No one but the Boss knew. He hadn't ever told his companions...and certainly not Irene. The Boss wouldn't have told him...would he? John felt horrible tears brimming in his eyes. He didn't want to cry...but the raw wounds that Sherlock exposed with those simple words hurt so much more than any of the bruises he'd received only a few short nights ago. Sherlock knew he'd been a proud solider...now he was reduced to a frightened...abused...worthless...thing.

Sherlock's gaze never faltered, it never even changed. It was intense and yet entirely impassive, like John's secret meant nothing to him. Like it wasn't something heartbreaking. He didn't have pity there...nor any form of mockery...just a calm sort of stating-the-facts kind of look. The tears escaped down his cheeks, but at least there were no sobs. Just silent, painful, tears. He didn't know what to say...or do...or feel. 

“T-tell me...”

John inhaled raggedly as he closed his eyes, “I...g-got sh-shot...”

 

* * *

 

_Pain._

_John awoke in a world of pain and confusion. The last thing he could remember was a searing pain in his shoulder and a bright fiery flash. An explosion! He'd been shot! His team! John tried to sit up...and discovered, to his horror, he was bound down to the rough pallet he was on. Fear and pain raced down his spine, making him panic and struggle, foolishly. Shouting for his companions, who were likely dead, and coming face to face with his blurred captors. They'd held him down and sedated him, why they bothered was beyond John as his consciousness was stolen away by a blissfully calm blackness._

_The cycle repeated itself for the first week, John would wake up thrashing and screaming. And his captors would simply appear and sedate him. The next few weeks after that, John stopped thrashing so violently when they came to tend his wounds. His companions were no where nearby and he was probably listed as Killed In Action. That didn't deter him from trying to escape...his wounded shoulder did, but he was determined to get out of this mess alright. Though, for the most part he remained strapped down and sedated in his first few weeks of captivity. He was quickly losing track of the days...but he was healing and therefore he would be able to plot an escape. Provided they ever stopped sedating him._

_His chance to try came when they moved him, forcing him into the back of a truck for a nauseatingly long trip over rough roads that had jostled his shoulder ruthlessly. John was never more grateful when they stopped and dragged him into his new prison. They'd neglected to strap him down or sedate him...so that night he'd attempted to escape..._

_He'd been caught._

_After a terrible beating, one that left him unable to open his eyes through the swelling, they tied his hands and feet and threw him back into his prison. The beating was decidedly impersonal and meant to slow him down more than to cause him any real harm. It was like they were trying to keep him, mostly, in good shape. A week, or two...maybe even three, passed with John remaining mostly in his new prison. His wounds were, once again, roughly tended to...and after a few days they had at least untied his legs. A few more days passed before they had released his hands._

_John was moved before he could plot another escape. He passed from the hands of his rough, silent, captors...to others of a similar make. They, however, let him ride in the relative comfort of an air conditioned vehicle...stuffed on the floor in the back with his head under someone's boot. He couldn't look up and he could hardly move. He cursed at them, but stopped after one man delivered stinging blows to his kidneys. The drive was, again, agonizingly long and the days blurred together. He was allowed out for short breaks with his captors, but always ended up on the floor once they headed out again...every bump slamming his face into the floor remorselessly._

_At last, they stopped and John was jostled out of the vehicle in the middle of the day, staggering and trying to break away. He took another series of hits to his kidneys before they dragged him into a hanger. This time they used duct tape instead of ropes, liberally wrapping it from his ankles to his knees and his elbows to his forcefully clasped hands. They stuffed a filthy, wadded, cloth into his mouth and used more than half a roll of the silver tape to keep it in place. The other half wrapped over his eyes as a crude blindfold. They folded him roughly and shoved him into a box that barely fit even his small form. The lid had been bolted and he'd been jostled away._

_They put him on a plane, he was able to tell when the pressure changed and when they took off. It was a long plane ride and John spent it in agony. The box was unbearably stuffy and John feared he might suffocate. He was delirious from days of travel and beyond confused as to why he was being moved around so much. Eventually he felt them bump down on a runway, but much to his distress it was only to switch planes. The second flight was the shortest trip so far, but it was one trip too many for John._

_When he reached his destination he was almost praying he'd never have to travel again. He had no idea where he was or why he was there and he was desperate to get out of his cramped container. The box was roughly hoisted out of the plane and carried quite a distance before it was roughly dropped, making John moan. He remained in the box for an unknown amount of time after that. Struggling for air in the cramped confines of his prison until, at last, someone opened the lid and hauled him out. His nerves were completely shot, so he didn't put up much of a fight as his new captor cut away the tape._

_As the blindfold came away, he got his first glance at the man he would come to fear and hate._

_The man patted his filthy cheek, “Welcome home, Johnny Boy...”_


	5. Finish What You Started

_John's head hung low. His right eye and most of the right side of his face was swollen and bruised, blood was drying as it slowly trickled from his nose. His hair was matted and streaked with sweat and...various bodily fluids John didn't want to think about. Tears trickled, painful, over his raw cheeks and over his cracked lips, which were stretched wide with a despicably large ring gag. His saliva dripped shamefully from his gaping mouth, leaving a horrible trail over his bare, battered, chest._

_A mottled bruise had begun to take shape on the left side of his ribcage, marking his cracked ribs like a bulls-eye. Raised red marks and subtle bruises in the form of groping hands marred his hips and shoulders. The floor was hard on his bare knees, rubbing at the raw sores with every shift and shake of his battered, filth covered, form. His ass was a mess of bruises and blood that he was trying his hardest to ignore. His hands, balled into fists, were trapped behind his back with harsh, too tight, cuffs which had lacerated his wrists and caused them to bleed lazily. A choke chain, the kind meant for dogs, rested loosely around his neck; though his neck was raw and bruised in the same pattern as the chain._

_The naked blonde man couldn't even hold himself up on his knees, he was forced to lean, reluctantly, against the leg of the man who was tracing gloved fingers over his shuddering pale skin. A whimper escaped his careful control when the hand delved into his hair, cringing as fingers twisted into the ragged locks. All John could manage was closing his eyes and willing himself to fall unconscious, to escape his agony. But the Boss would never allow that._

_John felt a sob starting to work in his chest when a door opened behind him and admitted his hated, and feared, tormentor. His lips quivered and his body shook when the man laid a tender hand on his neck to play with John's “collar”. He toyed with the warm chain, traced over John's bruises, and then savagely pulled the chain tight! John gave a strangled, garbled, sound of distress as he was forced to strain upright on his knees and struggle for every miserable breath._

_The Boss was a blurred image, through his tears, but John knew the man was sneering in a fake caring way. “How long has it been, Johnny Boy?” He mused in his nasally, sing-song, voice as he traced a thumb around John's straining lips. “Two days? Three? Maybe even four?”_

_A desperate whimper worked in John's throat, his body shaking as he struggled to keep upright and avoid strangling. It had been five days...five days since John had been cruelly subjected to the ring gag. He'd bitten someone's cock when they'd tried to force him to take it...and he'd been punished for it. His jaw was on fire and he thought he might do anything to have the gag removed._

_The Boss could obviously tell, because he toyed with the buckle in the mats of John's hair. “Oh...I think we can remove this now...you won't bite me, will you love?”_

_John hated himself for it, but he shook his head and blinked through more tears. Relieved beyond all measure when the horrible steel ring was finally removed and he could close his mouth for the first time in what felt like eternity. The pain was intense as his camped jaw began to spasm. The choking pull of his collar was eased so John could sit back on his heels. His body shook violently and another sob worked in his chest._

_The Boss worked one hand into John's hair, “Now, open wide...like a good boy...”_

_The blonde man was tempted to refuse, but the thought of the gag being returned to his aching jaws served as an effective deterrent. He parted his lips and closed his eyes as the tip of a hard cock graced his lips. The Boss wasn't gentle...he wasn't fast...taking his time to savagely claim John's mouth and wrench the first of many sobs from John's chest..._

“ _Good Boy...” The Boss cooed and stroked John's hair, “Good, Pet....”_

 

* * *

 

_Please stop...please stop..._

John had been mouthing the silent phrase and shaking his head for a handful of seconds before Sherlock recognized the man had stopped talking. Like John, Sherlock had been overwhelmed by the images he was seeing. He blinked and stared into the unfocused eyes of the broken man that was crumbling at his feet.

“John...” Sherlock breathed, his voice decidedly weakened by the chill still clinging to his body.

The blonde man did not respond, but his head started to shake back and forth as he relived his nightmare. The horror and hopelessness which started to work into his cringing face made Sherlock shift uncertainly.

“John.” Sherlock tried again, this time his voice was firm. Still the blonde man offered no response, so the dark haired man dropped to his knees to grasp John's face in his hands. “Look at me!”

John all but screamed at the contact, his while body jumping as if he'd been touched by a live wire. He lashed out, shoving at Sherlock violently. “Get off!” He shouted as he tried to escape from Sherlock...no...from his nightmare-ish tormentor.

Sherlock didn't let go, instead pulling John's thrashing, cold, form against his chest and between the wall. John all but went mad, driving several hard blows into Sherlock's chest before trying to twist away from his trapped hold. The detective nearly let go, surprised John could still hit so hard, he shouldn't have been so foolish. Instead of letting go, Sherlock decided to reach up with a free hand to turn on the water again, this time opting for a warm spray as he clung to John while he struggled free from his flashback. The man gasped for air, but his struggles slowly ceased...eventually they stopped all together. John's hands were balled into Sherlock's shirt and his head hung between their bodies. His rasping breath sounded close to sobs, yet no tears fell this time. The blonde man said nothing, letting the water wash over them in silence for several long moments.

“H-hit me...” John finally whispered, his face slowly lifting to meet Sherlock's. “Pl-please...”

Sherlock shook his head, “No.”

John's face filled with anguish and his fists twisted desperately in Sherlock's shirt, “Please, please! I'm begging you...please...just...just stop...”

“Stop what?”

“Stop treating me like I matter!” John shouted hoarsely as he glared pleadingly into Sherlock's passive eyes, desperate to have the man abuse him like he was used to. He couldn't handle being treated like a human being who had feelings, he couldn't handle someone caring about him after so many years of agony and abuse.

Sherlock held his gaze and his ground, shaking his head subtly, “I can't do that...because you do matter, John.”

John's lips quivered, as if he were trying to smile and frown all at once, and his grip intensified. “H-how can you say that? I'm a...a fucking sex toy! That's what I am! I...I'm worthless...” His voice cracked and he took a shaking breath as he tried to sort out his ragged memories and emotions that were overwhelming him.

“You...are not...worthless.” Sherlock said gently, “You are worth so much more than you'll ever know. I know you help the others, even though it costs you. Without you...they would have no hope, John. You're worth something to them and you're worth something to me.” He paused, “I know...we barely know each other, but...you're different. You're not like other people and I won't let you believe you're worthless. I won't hurt you.”

“I've heard that before...” John breathed, but Sherlock could see that tiny defiant spark starting to glow in the man's eyes once more.

“Then finish what you started...I won't stop you.” Sherlock urged softly.

John seemed terrified, embarrassed, and stunned. For a moment he looked like he might flee, but a desperate longing crept into his face. A longing to believe that he had control...and that he didn't have to fear the dark haired stranger offering him kindness. The blonde man's hands slowly unfurled from their tight fists, tentatively splaying over Sherlock's soaking wet shirt and against his chest. When Sherlock made no move to protest, John leaned his face towards him. His lips were desperately close, but John hesitated to make full contact. Sherlock didn't pressure him, allowing the stout man to apply gentle pressure to his chest and guide him backwards onto his back so the water now cascaded on John's back and around them.

Sherlock saw the momentary flicker of uncertainty, the thought that he could flee and not have to deal with Sherlock if he so chose. Yet the blonde man stubbornly stayed to tentatively kneel over Sherlock's hips. He was tense and unwilling to press the same contact as he had done when he was dancing, yet he remained to test how true Sherlock's words had been. The dark haired detective was even more impressed when John did finally settle to straddle his hips, his tension and shyness starting to fade into that fluidity, that seduction.

John did revel in his seductive powers.

John did enjoy being in control.

Yet control was something he was denied in his current role, unless he was up on a stage seducing criminals out of their money. Sherlock briefly wondered if John thought of him as another criminal to seduce for money...though the thought didn't have a chance to linger when John twisted his hips exquisitely and leaned his head back into the warm water. In that moment, Sherlock felt he could stay on the hard tile floor forever and admire the complex blonde man in all his raw, seductive, powerful, glory.

There was the true John Watson. Not the broken ex-solider. Not the abused slave. The strong, confident, alluring man who feared no one and nothing. The one who could seduce a room of criminals with a single glance. The man who was in control and not emotionally damaged. This was no façade, nor mechanism to hide his pain...this was John Watson. The blonde man stared down into Sherlock's wondering gaze, the horror and pain that had plagued him only moments ago was replaced with confident control.

_Kiss me..._

Sherlock was surprised by the thought, it was halfway too his lips when his blood ran absolutely cold and John went ridged with fright.

“Well, well, _well_...what do we have here, _Pet_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's not very long, but I have a bit of free time here to throw up a few rapid fire sort of updates! So keep your eyes peeled for those in the next few days! Sorry about the long delay...I was finishing off the last few weeks of classes and projects and life...anyhow, enjoy!


	6. The Boss

“I do hope I'm not interrupting...” The man smiled crookedly as he observed the scene with eerily dead, amber, eyes. 

John almost instantly shoved himself off of Sherlock, his shoulder connected with the tiled wall in his haste to put distance between them. Sherlock heard him hiss with pain, but he ignored it in favour of pushing himself slowly to his feet to face the man watching them. 

“Not at all.” Sherlock said as he shook his head and smoothed a hand through his dripping curls to give the intruder a critical stare. 

He was a sharply dressed man in a rather immaculate, blue, suit. His dark hair was slicked back and held, perfectly, in place. The amusement in his sing-song tone wasn't reflected in his face, but he was very convincing. He was toying with the gum he was casually chewing, hands in his pockets as he rocked back on his heels calmly. The detective couldn't place him, who was he? Was he a client? Was he an employee? John seemed to know him. However, judging by the paleness of the blonde's skin, the relationship appeared fear based. The man smirked and tilted his head slightly, as if amused by Sherlock's obvious confusion. 

“Forgive me, where are my manners?” He removed his hands from his pockets, “I'm the Boss.” Using air quotes before he smiled evilly. _“Moriarty.”_

Sherlock felt his brows drawing together slowly, his brain suddenly going three hundred different directions before he could follow. “The other...is a decoy. Ingenious.”

“Moran? Oh yes...he insisted that I shouldn't be the face behind the name, in case something _scandalous_ were to happen. But I've been dying to meet you, Sherlock.” Making a subtle gesture towards John, “You have good taste.”

The wet detective shrugged as he watched John pull away from the wall and crawl, on his hands and knees, to Moriarty's side. The man smiled, running his fingers through John's soaking wet hair. A shudder of disgust worked down John's spine, but head leaned into the touch. 

“Did you miss me?” Moriarty cooed, suddenly tightening his fingers painfully in the golden strands and jerking John's head back so his throat jutted at a painful angle. “Moran told me you've been very...very...naughty...”

“N-no, I swear―” John began, but his response was replaced with a short cry of pain when he was thrown against the floor.

“Don't lie to me!” Moriarty all but bellowed as he shoved his well polished shoe roughly between John's shoulder blades. “And don't swear, Johnny Boy, it's very rude.” The man's voice decidedly lower as he smoothed a hand through his dark hair and addressed Sherlock. “As I was saying...I've been watching you for a while now. You do have an impressive resume...corporate contortion, alleged murders and kidnappings, maimed survivors...” Moriarty shrugged, “Interesting set of skills for someone unheard of until recently.”

“I wanted to make an impression, how else was I going to meet the man behind all this criminal brilliance?” Sherlock offered, trying to ignore John as the man made a soft sound of agonized distress and rested his forehead against the wet tiles. 

Moriarty just smiled, chewing his gum thoughtfully before nodding. “Bring him along, would you?” He said casually he eased his foot off John's back. 

The blonde man shuddered, his bright eyes meeting Sherlock's. Fear, pain, and hatred swirled in their depths. Sherlock's lips thinned, but his face remained carefully blank as he approached John. The man didn't have a chance to push himself to his knees before the lanky detective stooped to haul him upright. Sherlock set John on his shaking legs rather sharply, causing him to almost collapse. However, Sherlock kept a firm grip on his upper arm. It appeared impersonal and harsh, but John acknowledged the help under Sherlock's guise with a subtle glance.

Sherlock was intrigued, once more, by the willingness to trust him that John showed. It seemed odd and Sherlock felt he would have to ask John a bit more directly about it...in time. For the moment, both followed Moriarty out of the dressing room and back into the club. The others were still there, finishing up their practice session with Irene. Sherlock wasn't surprised to see the performers scramble behind Irene as Moriarty drew nearer, the woman, herself, drew her shoulders back a little further to use her very domineering aura to its fullest extent. She was offering protection as best as she could, but Sherlock knew even she couldn't stop Moriarty if there was something the man really wanted.

Moriarty chuckled faintly, amused by the fear he instilled in his captive employees. “I have a little announcement for you all...Miss Adler will be going away for a little while and this,” He gestured to Sherlock, “will be your new _manager_ until she comes back.”

Sherlock had already known he was supposed to look after the performers, as the Boss---or rather Moran---had told him so, but this was news to him. An uncertain amount of murmurs followed the revelation, even Irene seemed to give it a little thought. Would Sherlock be able to take care of them like she had? Or would he prove to be just as tyrannical as Moriarty?

“Well,” Irene said, abruptly silencing the chatter. “I believe he's the perfect fit, Jim, you always did have an eye for these things.” She purred, but her nails were slowly digging into the supple leather of her crop. “Now, if you don't mind...we'd like to finish up with a final turn from John...”

“Oh, this won't take long. I just wanted to remind everyone of a few things while the cats are away...” A wicked glint flashed in the depths of Moriarty's gaze as he motioned for Sherlock to bring him John.

With a faked ease, Sherlock shoved the blonde man forward and watched him stumble before he hit the floor with a hiss of pain. Irene's own mask of cool confidence almost slipped, but for the sake of the others behind her she remained impassive. In all likelihood, John had told them not to interfere in similar matters, though he was a broken solider...he still had a stubborn sense of honour and a desire to help. It would be the death of him, which Sherlock was beginning to think was what John wanted most. 

John slowly pushed himself to his knees as Moriarty removed his dark blue coat to hand to Sherlock. “It has come to my attention that a few of you are being a bit...petulant.” His voice calm and pleasant, but the undertone was dead and completely criminal. “Petulance bordering on... _disobedience_.” Moriarty continued as he rolled the sleeves of his crisp white shirt up and strolled over to the bar casually. “Now, I know none of you would ever disobey me...would you?” He leaned over the polished wood surface, rummaging around carefully before he found what he wanted.

A cane...a thick black one with a large silver ball on the end, probably left behind by a patron one night. John stiffened, very aware he was about to hurt a lot more than he already did. Moriarty beat the ball in his palm, as if testing its weight, while he strolled calmly back towards John. 

“You wouldn't disobey me, would you?” He asked and when no one offered a response he swung the heavy cane in a savage arc, hitting John's bruised ribs and driving the air from his lungs in a painful cry. _**“Would you?!”**_ Moriarty snapped as John curled in on himself.

“N-no...” Someone managed to stammer in the midst of the terrified group. 

Moriarty glared at them, dissatisfied with the singular response. He delivered three hard strokes across John's back, wringing a strangled scream with each loud snap of the cane. Sherlock feared he might break John's back, but like Irene, he remained entirely aloof...or tried to. If he stepped in, his whole cover would be blown...and Moriarty probably had a handful of henchmen waiting for the chance to appear. Sherlock could tell he wasn't the type to act so brutally on his own, unless he had muscle to keep him in power.

“Let's try once more, lovelies...” The man hissed, “None of you...” punctuating his words with a savage blow to John's shoulders, “...would _ever_...” another blow to his side, “... _disobey_ me, _would you_?” The final blow cracked over John's forearms, which he'd thrown over his head to shield it from a blow that might actually kill him.

All the performers shook their heads, several were beginning to tear up and shake as they watched the brutality unfold before them. Moriarty prowled around John. 

“Get up.” He hissed, kicking John's battered ribs when he was slow to comply.

Somehow, the man slowly reached his knees. He started to stand, but Moriarty brought the cane and hefty ball down on his lower back. He bit back a scream, falling to one knee and struggling for breath. Sherlock could only imagine his pain...he was battered enough before, surely this new beating wouldn't help. 

Moriarty’s hair fell before his eyes and he glared at the blonde man who was fighting tears of pain. “Get. Up.” He growled through his teeth.

John's face contorted with misery, but he simply struggled to gain his feet. He did manage to stand, but Moriarty slammed the cane into his abdomen. As John's breath left his lungs with a whoosh and he folded over, Moriarty cracked him behind the knees. John wheezed painfully as he crumpled to the floor once more, tears stung his eyes as the pain rocketed through his body. He knew exactly why Moriarty was beating him in front of his companions...he was setting an example. As if they needed more examples to behave.

The blonde man almost sobbed when Moriarty hissed at him to get up again. He tried to comply, but barely managed to gather his arms under him to try and push himself off the floor. Moriarty motioned to Sherlock as John struggled to get up. The shaggy haired detective shifted and set aside Moriarty’s coat carefully before reaching down to pull John upright by his damp blonde hair. John's teeth dug into his lower lip, his eyes clamped shut and his breath rasped unevenly through his flared nostrils. John sagged in Sherlock's hold, his body protesting the abuse by slowly pushing him towards unconsciousness...too slowly, of course.

“If you ever even _think_ about disobeying me...I'll kill you.” Moriarty snapped, delivering another blow that succeeded in making John bite his lip hard enough t draw blood. “I'll cut the debt you owe me right out of your miserable, lying, hides.” The cane whizzed through the air in rapid succession, the heavy ball smashing into the side of John's face as a final blow.

John's world went dim, a spray of blood saliva spattering across the floor as his body fell to the side! In the haze of darkness, John vaguely wondered if he'd lost any teeth...but Moriarty, while brutal, was very skilled in his techniques. He wouldn't let John die and he wouldn't maim him to the point of disfigurement. At least not yet. The blonde man prayed for unconsciousness to claim him fully, but his body refused to grant him even that simple reprieve. The dimness fading to reveal the horrified faces of his companions staring at him and Moriarty leaning over him. Moriarty wrenched him to his feet, making his head spin violently, and slung him into one of the nearest set up mirrors. It shattered on impact, making his companions shriek! John crashed down in the shards, feeling more rain down on his body. He felt thousands of pieces slice into his flesh and he wondered if he'd be lucky enough to have one go deep enough to kill him.

Sherlock watched with as much horror as Irene and John's companions as he landed among the broken shards from the mirror. Moriarty seemed like he was going to continue, but the unexpected buzz of a phone in his coat pocket caused him to turn slowly. In a moment his face changed from raging madman to placid businessman. He straightened and slicked his hair calmly back into place before walking to his coat and rummaging for his phone.

“Hm...that's my ride.” Moriarty sighed lightly and flashed Sherlock a grin, “It was a pleasure to meet you, Sherlock...but I really must go.” Slipping the coat back on after fixing his sleeves. He twirled the cane and started for the door as he answered the phone, “You're late...” He chided, vanishing through the club's door.

Almost as soon as he was gone, John's companions rushed forward. Irene snapped at them not to approach, as most of them were barefoot and they didn't need to tend anymore wounds than John's. Sherlock crossed the shattered shards in a few short strides, crouching and carefully reaching out to turn the blonde man over.

“D-don't...” John managed to mumble as soon as he felt Sherlock's hand, “Sweep...first...”

“You keep quiet.” Sherlock hissed. 

He was tempted to ignore John's command, but the man probably knew what he was talking about. Reluctantly he waited for the performers to find brooms to clean up the space, carefully removing what mirror partials he could while they waited. Irene brought out a first aid kit, which was hardly adequate for the injuries, and gathered all the towels she could find. Setting up a small station and chair where they could move the man once the mirror was cleaned up.

“John...” Irene called his name gently as she approached, “John...I won't let this happen anymore. He's going to kill you...”

“I...I'm fine...” John mumbled through bloody teeth.

“You're not fine! You...” She gave Sherlock a glance, as if trying to determine if he'd stop her. “I want you to come with me.”

John stiffened under Sherlock's gentle hands, he would have shaken his head if it didn't feel weighted to the floor. “N-no...can't...”

“John, you _need_ to come with me. He's going away for the longest time yet! It's the perfect time!”

“N-no!” John hissed, “I won't...leave them...”

Sherlock had to admire the man's dedication. He would die trying to save people...it was human error as far as the detective was concerned. Irene shook her head, unwilling to accept John's refusal to go away to a better place. She continued to ask him to reconsider until all the mirror fragments on the floor were cleared away and Sherlock gently propped him up. Shards stuck in his flesh and tumbled from his clothing. His face was not only bruised, but swollen and bloody. Sherlock wondered if any of John’s facial bones might be broken...he wouldn't doubt it. Tears leaked down his cheeks from behind closed eyes, but Sherlock suspected John wasn't aware of it in his dazed state of mind. Irene crouched to brush mirror fragments carefully from his blonde hair while Sherlock supported his sagging body carefully.

“Clothes...” John mumbled, “C-cut them...off...”

The dark haired man frowned, but nodded. His clothes were covered in mirror fragments and it was probably best to remove them rather than search the fabric for every tiny piece. One of the other ladies brought over a pair of scissors and allowed Irene to do the work while another ran to fetch John's robe. As Irene carefully cut away his damp shirt, Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. The cane had welted John severely and added to the bruises he'd gained only a few nights ago...some of which appeared in the shape of a hand. How much pain John was in was becoming more evident. His shorts were soon to follow, and Sherlock couldn't help but catalogue the bruises and scars that marred John's lower half.

“Alright...let's get you up...” Irene said gently, interrupting Sherlock's observations, as John's robe was laid out for him.

Sherlock and another young man started to lift John, very carefully, but the movement proved to be too much and John's head lolled forward as, at last, he lost consciousness. They carefully carried John's limp form to the waiting chair, mindful of not setting him down on any mirror pieces sticking out of his body. Irene modestly laid John's robe over his lap before she stepped out of her heels and knelt next to him to start working on removing the shimmering mirror fragments. Sherlock stayed to offer what little help he could. The others lingered for a time, but eventually they went back to the dressing room for the night.

“Is it like this all the time?” Sherlock asked as he wiped at the blood around John's eyes. 

Irene sighed faintly, “No...this is the worst, by far.” She said as she worked a particularly large piece out of John's arm.

“Hm.”

“I wish he'd come with me...”

“You could always just take him.” Sherlock said as he applied a small bandage to a cut over his brow. It seemed redundant though, given how swollen and bruised the area was.

Irene scoffed, “I can't force John to do anything, no one can. Hence...” She gestured to the unconscious blonde man as if his abused state said it all, Sherlock supposed it did.

An impulse suddenly seized the detective's mind, a solution that would make everyone at least somewhat happy. It was probably the stupidest thing Sherlock would ever do, but it did have advantages where his investigations were concerned. “Do you suppose anyone's watching the doors?”


	7. Open Curtains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay lovelies, I just started my new job and I've been rather exhausted. I also had a bit of an accident that resulted in me being kind of sore and hardly able to bend over for the better part of a week. Anyway, here is another little chapter to keep you up to date. I'll try to be more prompt, but this is a weird kind of time. Thank you for hanging in there and I promise so much more is coming down the line!

John woke to a foreign sensation...

It was the smallest ray of sunlight warming his cheek. Though his body thrummed with unbearable pain, he ignored it in favour of cracking open his one good eye to stare around with confusion. Dim morning light filtered through a crack in the curtains, reflecting off particles floating through the rather dusty room. John was confused and a bit...frightened. A slight spike of panic and excitement raced through his aching body as the realization overwhelmed him. 

He was _outside_ the club. 

It had been so long since he'd left the club that John didn't know how he should feel, emotions swirled and flowed around his mind as he struggled to breathe tentatively through the horrible pain in his ribs. The soft, warm, blanket was suffocatingly heavy as it pressed reassuringly around his shoulders. It smelled musty and faintly masculine, like it was rarely used. John swallowed hard and closed his eye to try and quell his shaky nerves. The gentlest footfalls made him look to the slightly cracked door of the small room...

Sherlock paused in the doorway, his crystal blue eyes calmly meeting John's gaze, he was holding a small tray which was piled with an almost comically excessive amount of food. A steaming cup balanced precariously on the edge of the tray and the faint scent of coffee wafted across the room.

“No one saw.” Sherlock finally said as he resumed his gentle strut into the room, setting the tray on the short bedside table. 

John closed his eye for a moment, slightly relieved to know no one had seen him leaving the club premises. “Must've...been quite the scheme...” He mumbled, his voice was hoarse and his mouth felt like it was full of cotton. He swept his tongue carefully over his teeth, a few were loose but they all appeared to still be in his head.

Sherlock scoffed faintly, “Hardly. It took barely any time at all to spot the sentries and even less time than that to convince them to leave their posts. That, by the way, is something you can thank your companions for.” The man said as he reached for the blanket.

The blonde flinched, regretting the involuntary reaction as it aggravated his aching body further. Sherlock's hand stilled, hovering just shy of contact. His eyes turned to John's face, waiting silently until John's painful spasm eased and he could nod.

“S-sorry...”

“Don't be.” Sherlock stated firmly and carefully lifted the blanket away to examine various bandages and bruises, mindful to keep his contact to the bare minimum for John's sake.

“My companions...” 

Sherlock stilled, meeting John's gaze calmly. “It wasn't my idea, John. They suggested it themselves.”

John shuddered and shook his head slightly, “I...they...” He heaved as much of a frustrated sigh as he could manage, disgusted with himself for being the reason they had _helped_ him. He never wanted to be that reason...least of all when it called for them using themselves as payment. Guilt and loathing threatened to choke him, so he took a painfully deep breath and savoured the harsh sting that threatened to make him pass out. Sherlock watched him silently, he didn't seem aware of John's plight. Or, if he was, he didn't intend to draw attention to it.

He curled his hand into a fist, “I...I told them not to. I told them never to...” John could hear the crack in his voice and he could feel the slip in his composure. “It's stupid...I know. I mean they have to...take clients. I do. I take clients too...I guess it just...I hate it. I know they hate it too...I can see it.” John took a shaking breath, “It's the eyes...” Sherlock's brow furrowed, recalling the deadness he saw the first night he had arrived at the club. “They start out so bright...so young, but it doesn't last...that spark just slowly dies inside every time they have to...” John cursed and bit back a pained moan, “I've been there so long that it doesn't matter...I mean...what's one more bloke's cock to me? What's one more...bruise here or there? What's one more gang bang?” John's voice hitched as he fought back a disgusted shudder, “I've been dead inside for years.”

Sherlock stared silently for a moment longer, watching the hitch and twitch of the broken man's body. He was riddled with pain...from the physical to the psychological. John thought he was dead inside. He thought he was like the others. If only he could see...

“Have you now?” Sherlock's deep voice rumbled as he tilted his head just slightly to one side, his bright eyes flickering intensely as he swept them over John's bruised and battered chest. “You know, John, the very moment I walked into the club...I thought there was no possible way anyone working there could still have any fight in them. I thought for certain that they were broken beyond any hopes of repair...” He reached out to lift John's chin so the man would look him in the eyes, “And do you know what I thought when I saw you for the first time?”

John's head barely twitched, “N-no...no.” He whispered.

Sherlock leaned in just a littler closer, “I thought...there is still life in that one...that one is strong and vibrant. That one is still fighting.” He held John's gaze for just a moment more before he leaned back and moved his hand away, watching John's body move to follow.

The blonde man only just held himself back with a hiss of pain, his body reminding him that moving wasn't suggested or encouraged. He laid back on the bed and inhaled shallowly, mulling over the brief contact and Sherlock's words. Was he really not so dead? He exhaled slowly as he looked sullenly at Sherlock. 

“You won't take me back...will you?” John finally asked, seeking to move away from the emotional topic, he could feel tears building in his eyes and he desperately wanted to avoid another sobbing episode with his handsome helper.

“No. _Not yet_...you won't be missed. Your companions are covering for you and you are hardly fit for... _service_. I'm sure that's not an uncommon occurrence and people, therefore, will not find your absence odd.” Sherlock offered before reaching for something on the tray, some small looking pills.

Pain killers. 

John's lips tightened and he turned his head ever so slightly, a clear indication that he did not want anything to do with being pain free...or mostly pain free. Sherlock saw a brief flash of fear in his one good eye, a fear that he would have to face his inner demons if the pain went away. Sherlock shifted the pills in his palm and nodded silently.

“If you're wondering about all this,” Sherlock indicated the tray, “I had nothing to do with it. My land lady, Mrs. Hudson, thought you looked a little on the thin side. She has a terrible tendency to be...too motherly and would not let me back up the stairs without first promising to take this monstrosity she calls breakfast to you.” The detective shrugged and wrinkled his nose as if it was some kind of inconvenience, but he was rather fond of the elderly land lady. “That being said, she is perhaps the best cook on the street and you would be wise to at least attempt a little of this feast.”

The tension faded slowly from John's face as his lips parted in a painful, but relieved, way and he turned his attention back to the piled up plate of food. He couldn't deny that it smelled, and looked, fantastic...compared to what he was used to in any case. He closed his eye again as a surge of pleasant emotions swept over him. John could feel his composure cracking and feel the hot slide of a tear roll down his cheek. He reached, slowly, to wipe it away and then took as deep a breath as he dared.

“Sorry...I'm just...”

“It's perfectly alright.” Sherlock said softly, his bright eyes fixed on John with their usual sort of intensity that John was beginning to find endearing.

John offered a tentative nod and slowly started to sit up, his body screamed in protest and when Sherlock moved to help...John didn't flinch. “S-so...?”

“Yes?”

“What happens...now?” John asked as he tentatively picked at the food.

Sherlock made a face, _“Hm.”_ His hands slowly drifted to form a thoughtful steeple under his chin. “I hadn't really gotten that far in my thinking actually. What happens now all depends on you...” John paused to stare uncertainly at Sherlock. “Obviously we have to figure out how to get you away from the club...indefinitely.”

For a moment, John continued to stare warily at Sherlock. He barely knew this man...he barely knew him and yet this man was somehow well beyond his defences. He was able to help John calm down...drag out the truth he'd never told anyone...and get him out of the club. Sherlock wasn't the sort of person that John would have assumed he'd be so affected by. He was indifferent...yet perhaps that was exactly what John needed when everyone else was always so forward. 

“You...can't...I can't leave...” John finally managed to croak.

Sherlock's brow furrowed. “Of course you can. Moriarty will part with you for some reason or another. Money is really no object, but I think he'd find that a bore and—” 

“No.” John said, as sharply as he could manage, “I...I can't leave, Sherlock.”

The detective's brow furrowed, “Why not?” John wasn't indebted. Presumably, Moriarty would part with John for the right price. He'd been bought, illegally, and detained against his will. Surely, John didn't want to stay of his own free will.

John wouldn't meet his eyes, toying with the coffee cup slowly. “It...it probably doesn't make sense...but...but I really can't just leave...if I do...the Boss...M-Moriarty...he'll replace me with...with my sister.”

Sherlock stiffened minutely. Of course...of course it wasn't so simple as just being the victim of kidnapping and human trafficking.

“She...um...she's got a bit of a drinking problem. I guess...she got into a hard spot when Moriarty offered her _help._ He gave her money...and she never thought about paying him back. I guess he was paying her for a few years before he decided to call the debt. He went to collect and...” John paused, his breathing rapid and bordering on soft sobs. “Sh-she didn't mean to! It wasn't intentional! I mean we never got along quite right, but she would never have done that kind of thing on purpose!” The words tumbled out of his lips rapidly, quaking with sorrow and a hint of uncertain betrayal...like he was trying to convince himself more than Sherlock. 

“Your sister...” Sherlock murmured softly, understanding dawning on him. “She sold you to Moriarty...to work off her debts. He arrived when she was away with eh intent to wait for her to come back and confront her then, but he found something that directed him to you. You were more interesting than her. You were more fun to take. He confronted her about you, asked about where you were...who you were...and then he made plans to obtain you. And he used her against you rather than you against her.” Sherlock struggled not to sound too excited about his discovery, he didn't want to lose his potential avenue to success by poor tactics. “But...she keeps racking up debt...doesn't she?” John's trembling frown was all Sherlock needed in response. 

For a moment they stayed silent, John wrapped a trembling hand around the coffee cup and Sherlock just...breathed. At least the blonde man hadn't broken down crying. That would have been...well Sherlock didn't like to see tears in his eyes or on his face. It was deeply unsettling and stirred something in his chest that was somewhat foreign to him. John slowly lifted the mug to tentatively sip at the hot liquid within, he cringed...but Sherlock didn't think it was because the coffee was too hot.

“I don't...pay Moriarty back.” John began again, his voice decidedly calmer and his emotions in check once more. “All the money I make I can keep...but I give it to the others mostly, because my conditions are _different_.”

Sherlock nodded, “You're...” He thought for a term that wouldn't set the man off, but found none sounded less cruel than the next. “Payment. On-going payment.”

John swallowed another small sip of coffee, a frown slowly touching his lips. “And that's why I can't leave.”

The lanky detective nodded thoughtfully, it did put a bit of a hitch in his plans...but he would figure something out. He set the pills on the tray as he turned to the door, “You should rest, John. And take those...Mrs. Hudson will be rather cross if you don't. She'll probably come check up on you.” 

“Y-you're leaving?”

Sherlock turned to offer a smooth, reassuring, and somewhat dangerous smile. “There's no need to worry...you're safe here.” He paused in the doorway, watching John's eye dart once around the room with uncertainty before it returned to him. “Don't go anywhere.” He offered gently, hoping it sounded kind and not like a command. 

John's shoulders tensed and his jaw tightened. He seemed like he was about to argue and demand to be taken along, but the spark was brief and he was reaching slowly for the pills after only a few seconds. “H-hurry back...” He all but whispered as Sherlock whisked out of the door.


	8. Just Another Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry about the delay. I've been busy, busy, busy! But I won't leave this unfinished and I will get to all those little plot details in time. So, here's a little chapter to keep you interested and to slow the pace just a little. ;D Enjoy, or don't, my lovelies.

“This is the _most_ reckless thing you could have ever done, Sherlock Holmes!” Mycroft's angered tone was only slightly distorted through Sherlock's phone.

“I think you're being a touch over-dramatic...” The dark haired detective drawled as he waved down a cab, several bags in hand.

“ _Over-dramatic? **Over-dramatic!?** ” _The elder Holmes brother took a deep breath and Sherlock could hear him wiping a palm down his face. “You, Sherlock, are jeopardizing _years_ of work and _dozens_ of my best agents with this little _stunt_ of yours.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “And I'm also advancing your investigations faster than said agents and I've managed to do it in just two years. You really should be thanking me, Mycroft.” There was a pause as Sherlock eased into the backseat and gave the cabbie the address. His brother was thinking and Sherlock's brow creased. _“What?”_

“Nothing.”

“I heard that silence!”

“Oh, it's nothing.”

“ _Mycroft...”_

“Do be careful, brother dear. Mommy is planning on visiting soon and it would look poorly on me if you were to end up dead before that.” The line went dead rather abruptly before Sherlock could offer a witty retort. 

The detective grumbled under his breath and stuffed his phone back into his pocket, staring out the window as the cab rolled through the darkening London streets. The day had passed a lot faster than Sherlock had anticipated, but he assumed John wouldn't mind being left alone for a few hours. Although...as the cab bumped over uneven road, Sherlock recalled John's last words before he'd swept out of the flat. 

Hurry back.

Sherlock had ignored it then, he'd been too excited about the case to really pay much thought to John's shaking words. Now, however, he wondered if he'd been gone a little too long. John probably wasn't accustomed to normal daily things...considering how he'd reacted to the breakfast and sunlight. John had become accustomed to club life. He'd probably grown used to the darkness and dim lights. The thrum of music likely didn't register as anything but white noise. Sherlock knew John didn't have a nice bed. He'd had a mattress without a single blanket. Even though Sherlock's flat wasn't exactly anything unusual, or so he thought, John might find it a bit overwhelming. An uncertain feeling worked at the base of his spine, a feeling of...concern. Perhaps Mycroft had had a point...perhaps bringing John out of the club had been extremely reckless. 

By the time the cab pulled up to the stop on Baker Street, Sherlock was uncomfortably anxious. He threw the cabbie the fare and grabbed up his bags hurriedly, all but bolting through the door. He started to take the steps two at a time, but slowed so as not to startle John...if the man had somehow managed to get up and wander around the flat.

He gently pushed the door open and was greeted by thick, oppressive, silence. Something felt...wrong. The detective lingered in the threshold, his bright eyes darting around the gloomy, dusty, flat to take everything in. Nothing was disturbed...everything was exactly as it had been when he'd left. Very slowly, Sherlock set the bags down and, even more slowly, he started into the flat. He didn't need to turn on a single light to see where he was going, making his way towards the bedroom he'd left John in. Sherlock never made it there...because the lights suddenly flashed on! The dark haired detective winced and tripped over a footstool, landing on the floor in a rather undignified manner. 

“Oh, Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson's gentle scolding tone emitted from the doorway, “What are you doing sneaking around in the dark, dear? You nearly gave us a heart attack...”

Sherlock huffed and struggled to untangle himself from the stool, “I was _trying_ to be quiet so I wouldn't...wait...did you say _'us'_?” He looked over with a cocked brow, still half entangled with the horrible footstool...one which he was now considering burning.

Mrs. Hudson _and_ John were standing just inside the doorway. The kindly elder woman was holding John's arm, offering what little assistance she could. He looked utterly exhausted and extremely battered, but there was a lingering amusement in his gaze as he stared at Sherlock. 

“Yes dear, us. I invited John to join me once I realized you'd gone out for the day.” She gave the detective a disapproving glance as he slowly righted himself. “Honestly Sherlock, I don't know what you were thinking...leaving him here alone when he's hardly feeling well.”

“I—” Sherlock began, a tinge of pink starting to touch his cheeks as he hastily pulled down his coat to straighten it. 

“ _Oh!_ Don't try to give me some excuse!” She scolded, making Sherlock snap his mouth shut, “Poor thing can hardly sit up and you just run out on him! Suppose he needed help!” 

Sherlock blushed and pulled at his sleeves, looking away from his housekeeper and John's amused face. “I _assumed_ he would be resting...” He mumbled, sounding very much like a child trying to explain themselves to their parents.

The landlady put her hands on her hips, shaking her head and giving John an exasperated, but kind, look. “Well, dear, it was such a pleasure to have you around. I haven't entertained such pleasant company in an age.” Her gaze flickered to Sherlock as she continued. “If Sherlock ever takes off on you again, feel free to come and join me.” 

John offered a pained smile, “Thank you. I will.” He said softly, leaning over stiffly to accept the gentle peck on the cheek as the woman bid them goodnight.

As the door clicked shut, Sherlock began to speak. “I really didn't mean to be gone so...” His voice slowly trailed off as he watched John visibly sag. The stout man's face paled and he took a few deep breaths. “John?”

The battered man swallowed thickly, “I...I'm going to be sick.” John whispered.

Sherlock crossed the floor in two strides, stepping over a low coffee table, and put a guiding arm around John's waist. The blonde didn't flinch at the contact, rather...he pressed against Sherlock for stability so they could hurriedly, but carefully, stagger to the toilet. Sherlock barely lifted the lid before John hit his knees and his stomach violently emptied its contents. The detective silently fetched a damp cloth and placed it on the back of John's neck, waiting out the rather violent vomiting spell. 

John gasped painfully, the retching set his body on fire from the inside out. He barely held back agonized moans as he braced himself against the wall of the tub. He still felt nauseous, but he slowly reached a weak hand to the cloth on the back of his neck. Sherlock let him carefully drag it down, with trembling hands, and wipe at his mouth and nose with it. 

Still, Sherlock remained silent and watchful. He wasn't about to pressure John into telling him what was wrong...mostly because Sherlock found it obvious. The man wasn't coping well...he was overwhelmed by a normal life. He watched John's body quake and shudder, stress and pain radiating off him in nearly tangible waves. 

“Sorry...” John finally managed to mumble, his voice tight with pain and raw from retching. “It's...it's been year since I've...” He swallowed hard and closed his one good eye to inhale deeply through his nose. “It's too m-much...”

Sherlock watched a moment, “What would...make it easier?” 

John's swollen eye turned to his face, the stare was pained and yet somewhat grateful. “It...it's too quiet. I can hear people outside...and cars...” He carefully shook his head, “Bed's too big...and...and it's all so empty here. I-I'm used to the bustle of people around me...in the same room...in the same places.” A tremble worked in the man's voice and his eye misted with shameful tears. 

John was afraid.

_ Afraid of being alone. _

Guilt washed over Sherlock rather unexpectedly. He'd known that John would have troubles adjusting to life in the flat the moment he'd left that morning, but he'd ignored that knowledge. The lanky detective could only imagine what John had been thinking, wondering if Sherlock would ever come back. Sherlock could deduce why John feared being left alone in new places...given how he'd arrived in Moriarty's hands. It wasn't a stretch to assume John had been locked away in plenty of places during transport from place to place. He'd probably been left alone for days on end until he'd arrived at the club. 

“Wait here.” Sherlock said gently, quickly exiting the bathroom and rushing into the flat.

In a matter of minutes he'd rearranged the sofa so that John could lay on it, since Sherlock tended to work in the kitchen most nights he figured that would suffice in giving John the necessary proximity he needed to feel more at ease. Not to mention Sherlock could monitor him more easily from there. Once that was finished, he returned for the man in question...who was still curled against the tub next to the toilet. The blonde man made a soft noise of discomfort as Sherlock eased him onto his feet, helping him stagger slowly into the sitting room. 

“Y-you didn't have to—”

“Yes, I did.” Sherlock assured, gently cutting off John's protests as he carefully sat the battered man down.

John winced, but eased his way back so he could lay on his side. The press of the couch behind his back was oddly comforting, even though it pressed against tender bruises. Sherlock eased a light blanket up his torso and then moved to retrieve the bags he'd left at the door. 

“I took the liberty of buying you some things to wear...” Sherlock began as he brought the bags over, “Since I was informed you have...well...you had two outfits. One was ruined, obviously, and the other is a robe. And...well...you obviously won't fit in my attire, Mrs. Hudson was able to provide what you have on at the moment. Something left over from he husband I imagine. It's ill fitting in any case and I thought you might appreciate not going about the flat, and possibly the streets, naked.” The detective said as he opened the bags to start pulling out various items he'd gathered.

Jeans, slacks, shirts, pullovers...etc. They'd all fit perfectly. John stared at the clothes as Sherlock laid them out, a soft sniffle squeaking out of his careful guard. It had been ages since John had been given something _normal_ to wear. It had been ages since John had been treated like a human being. He turned his face into one of the pillows Sherlock had propped up for him, his chest heaving with painful, silent, sobs. 

Sherlock said no more, thinking John had been through quite enough. All he did was make some tea, set out a cup for John, and take up playing his Stradivarius. It wasn't something people around the flat weren't accustomed to and Sherlock wondered if it might help drown out the sounds of normal life that so distressed the battered man on his couch. He did his best to avoid all slow, sad, or depressing songs. Instead he focused on calming and gentle ones, playing loud and long into the night. Sherlock didn't mind playing, it gave him time to think about the case...and John.

John was an asset to him. He could personally testify to Moriarty's cruelty, for one thing, and he could more than likely identify dozens of other crime lords that Mycroft hadn't heard of yet. He would know all the intricate inner workings, when meetings were being held and where. John was positively full of all sorts of important information, however...it was buried under a mountain of abuse and torture. 

Sherlock would have to _fix_ John in order to get to the information he wanted...


	9. Get In The Car

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait lovelies, I really have no excuse other than I took my time with getting this part done. I know it's all very "soft/fluffy" stuff for now, but every story needs a little lull in the action, right? :P ANYwho...I hope you enjoy this chapter. If you don't, that's cool too! <3 (Also, I do apologize for my spelling and grammar. It does get away from me from time to time and I try to fix it if I can :3 )

The first few days John spent at Baker Street were the longest days he'd had to endure in an age. He could hardly eat, he barely slept, and he spent a great deal of his days in a painful haze. He refused to take the painkillers as often as he could get away with, still preferring the throb of a battered body to the horrors of his wounded mind. The beaten man, however, found some solace in his odd companion.

Sherlock diligently made life bearable. The lanky man would play his violin, loudly, for hours on end to drown out the more tedious sounds of life beyond the flat's walls. Sherlock never ventured far after that first day, sending Mrs. Hudson for anything that wasn't within walking distance. He also engaged John in various conversations which stemmed from the different types of tobacco ash to various body parts which seemed to appear in the oddest places. (Admittedly, John had been rather terrified when he first discovered a foot in the fridge. Sherlock assured him it was not from an unfortunate victim...that time.)

On the fifth day, John woke to the subtle sounds of morning traffic. He could hear the bustle of people making their way to work and the sounds of cars passing by. A shudder worked down his spine, but he slowly sat up and forced himself to ignore the usual pangs of pain. The sounds of life beyond the flat still grated on John's fragile mind, but he felt he could tolerate them. The queasiness he'd felt for the past few days seemed to be gone as well.

John was just starting to work his way of the couch when Sherlock stepped into the flat. He looked surprised for an instant and also a bit stricken that John was up and moving. A newspaper was folded under one arm, his hands were preoccupied with carrying what looked to be breakfast. He'd no doubt been to the cafe, which suggested it was too early for Mrs. Hudson to be awake. The dark haired man stared a moment longer before he straightened and moved over to set the paper bag and paper cups on the low coffee table.

“I didn't realize you'd be awake.” Sherlock offered, sounding just ever so slightly worried...or perhaps ashamed. Like he was upset for letting John endure sounds that obviously upset him. “I meant to be back before you...” The man sighed as he trailed off and headed for his violin.

The blonde man caught his arm, surprising himself and Sherlock. John stared uncertainly into the man's striking blue eyes, noticing the horrible, dark, bags which were forming under them. He had the faintest hint of stubble and his outfit looked in desperate need of a wash. Had he even taken a shower since John's arrival?

“S-sit.” John finally managed to say.

“But...the traffic...”

“You've...you've done enough.”

Sherlock hesitated, as if debating whether he should sit or he should play his violin. His intense gaze turned from John's face to the hand still wrapped, gingerly, around his forearm. Slowly...Sherlock joined John on the sofa. Both sat, in a slightly awkward silence, and ate. John watching Sherlock from the corner of his eye, meanwhile Sherlock methodically chewed and swallowed each bite...like it was a great chore to have to nourish his body.

“I'm feeling a lot better, you know.” John mumbled, “You could...should...probably get some rest.”

The dark haired detective glanced at John, then away as he reluctantly nodded. “Perhaps...I have errands to run first.”

“Can I...” John began, but the question caught in his throat.

Sherlock turned just ever so slightly to give John a more intensely scrutinizing look, like he couldn't understand why John would want to come along after his initial reaction to the normal world. The blonde man shifted uncomfortably under the stare, looking away and clamping his mouth shut, perhaps the man had a point...perhaps he shouldn't push himself. He really could barely walk and he could hardly breath well...but the desire to explore now that he was free of the club, for now, was beginning to overwhelm him.

“Get dressed.” Was all Sherlock offered before he retreated to the the washroom to tend to his unkempt appearance.

John was stunned and terrified. For several long minutes, he just stared at the closed bathroom door, like he couldn't believe Sherlock was about to let him tag along! He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the fearful lump forming in the pit of his stomach. It would be overwhelming, but John couldn't stand knowing the world he'd desperately been dreaming of seeing again was just outside a few flimsy walls. Unlike years past, where the walls were thick, underground, and the door were well guarded.

With slow, pained, movements John managed to dress himself. It seemed to take an age to pull the comfortable jeans on over shaking legs. It took a considerably longer time for John to ease on a button up shirt and shrug on a thick jumper. His ribs screamed angrily at him for even trying to lift his arms higher than his waist, but John savoured the heady rush of pain. It helped to clear his mind of all the uncertain thoughts he'd been having about actually joining Sherlock in the outside world.

Especially the one that said he'd be in so much trouble if the Boss ever heard about it...or if he saw them. John would be so dead. Sherlock would be very, very, dead. The stout blonde man tried not to linger on those thoughts that stalled his dressing process, one arm raised overhead with his jumper half on. This was how Sherlock found him when he walked from the bathroom, rubbing a towel in his dampened hair. The dark haired detective frowned as he tried to make sense of the odd position, thinking perhaps John had found it too difficult to pull the rest of the jumper over his head.

“Let me get that.” Sherlock mumbled gently, helping John settle the, in Sherlcok's opinion, ugly thing over his strong shoulders.

John blushed, a bit flustered, before he adjusted the collar of the jumper slowly. “I could have done it.”

Sherlock just shrugged and tossed the towel across the room, not caring much where it landed (which happened to be amongst a strange pile of beakers on the floor). John made a mental note not to use that towel again...and to possibly have it thrown out. He watched the lanky man uncertainly as he slunk around the flat to grab his coat and gloves, paying John very little attention until he fixed his scarf into place.

“Well...?” Sherlock prompted as he stared over at John expectantly.

The ex-solider blinked and then nodded, “Right! Right...sorry.” Standing faster than he meant to and doubling over as his ribs burned intensely.

Sherlock was at his side rather rapidly, gently taking him by the elbow so he didn't fall over and hurt himself more. They waited out the painful spasm before Sherlock helped John through the flat and down the stairs, making the man pause so he could fetch something from Mrs. Hudson.

“John will be taking the coat after all, Mrs. Hudson.” The man said as the elderly landlady smiled towards a very uncertain John.

“C-coat?” John managed to murmur, confused until the woman handed Sherlock a rather nice looking jacket. It was short and black, but it looked fit for action more than anything. It was a coat that John would have loved to have...and one that he probably couldn't have afforded. A blush touched his cheeks as Sherlock motioned him to turn so he could help the blonde man, gently, slip into the warm, luxurious, jacket.

“Perfect fit...as I thought.” Sherlock smiled subtly, like he enjoyed the rugged appearance John now held.

The blonde man bit his lower lip as he looked down at himself, his shoulders shaking just slightly with the most subtle of sobs. It had been so long since he'd had anything normal...it had been so long since he'd had a full wardrobe...it was almost too much and he hadn't even made it outside the door that stood between him and London. Slowly, he reached a hand to wipe at his eyes, wincing as he nudged bruises.

“John...if it's too much...” Sherlock began, a strong, lithe, hand hesitantly resting between his shoulder blades to try and comfort him...though Sherlock didn't seem to understand comfort like most others did.

He slowly shook his head, “N-no...no...I just...” John took as deep a breath as he dared and turned his battered face towards his tall rescuer, “Let's go.” He said, feeling so much stronger with Sherlock at his side...at his back.

Sherlock offered a ghost of an expression, one which seemed to mimic awe, before he moved by John and opened the door. He didn't wait and he didn't linger. If John was ready...then there was truly no point in lingering and asking if the man was ready. He pushed John, because he knew that John could take it. The man was a born fighter...he was stubborn and somewhere under that broken shell was the brave solider that wasn't willing to back down. It was just a matter of time before that John reappeared.

The brightness and sounds slammed John with the force of a hurricane. The blonde man held back a shudder and forced himself to remain firmly planted on his feet. He could feel the desire to return to the flat growing in the pit of his stomach, but it was being slowly overridden by his desire to see London...to breathe it all in again. Sherlock was watching him, judging his reaction. His pale fingers tightened on the door knob...as if he was an instant from closing the door again and putting John back in bed.

John inhaled deeply, winced at the pain, and stepped outside onto the doorstep and into the sunlight. It was dim, cloudy, and cold. A dampness lingered in the air with the promise of fog. Cars rolled by lazily and people passed by without sparing John so much as a glance. They had no idea who he was...or what he was. He was just another person heading out for his destination. Sherlock brushed against his back, prompting him to move a few more steps away from the door. He swallowed hard against the painful lump forming in his throat, blinking rapidly to dispel the moisture starting to gather in his eyes.

Sherlock stepped up next to him, shoving his hands deep into his coat pockets after turning his collar up against the chill. He hardly spared John a glance, assured the man was able to handle himself, as he moved to the curb to hail a cab. One pulled up, almost like it had been waiting nearby, and Sherlock gestured John inside.

A horrible shiver gripped John's spine as Sherlock beckoned him to the cab, unintentionally calling forth a memory John had rather hoped to keep buried. Sherlock's brow furrowed as John seemed to hesitate, taking an uncertain step towards him, “John?”

The street faded out of focus as his own name echoed in his head, changing from Sherlock's comfortable baritone to Moriarty's much more sinister drawl...

“Joh—”

 

* * *

 

“— _nny Boy.” Moriarty hissed against this ear, “We've been over this, love. Now...get in the car.” Twisting his small fingers in John's hair cruelly as if hair pulling might be incentive enough to make the blonde man move._

_It wasn't._

_He wasn't getting in any car where he was expected to “entertain” the other passengers. He wasn't getting in any car period after his last travelling affair. The very thought of being stuffed into any vehicle made the man absolutely strife with terror. He continued to brace hard against the strong hands that held him before the gaping door of the dark limo. Inside was a very large, unpleasant, Russian who had visited with Moriarty several times before. He'd made passes at John's ass more times than the man could count..._

_John shook his head violently, biting down hard on the unrelenting, thick, cloth bisecting his mouth like a bit. He was struggling not to gag on the rest of the wadded up cloth already shoved nearly down his throat. His arms crudely bound at the elbows with a tight leather belt. He felt like some sort of virgin sacrifice, minus the virgin part perhaps, all dressed in white. The Boss, Moriarty, found it amusing to dress John up._

_Moriarty tutted, his smooth lips brushed against John's neck and made the man shudder with utter disgust and fear. Tears welled in his eyes when Moriarty racked his teeth over the soft, quivering, flesh._

“ _Now...I know you didn't just tell me no, Johnny Boy...” The twisted man's voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “Get. In. The._ Fucking _. Car. Now.” Biting off every word with a harsh promise of unbearable torture if John refused him again._

_The blonde felt traitorous tears welling in his eyes, his body shaking violently with the need to rebel...the need to refuse the command. Moriarty seemed keenly aware of John's struggle, in fact...he seemed to revel in it. Moriarty seemed to love the feeling of John's defiance breaking against his chest, he seemed to love the exquisite shudders that raced through John's back as the man struggled with the command._

_John's head bowed lower and he relaxed against Moriarty's forceful hold. Shame and agony washed over him, making Moriarty feel a rush of intense pleasure drive straight to his groin. John moaned fearfully at the feeling of a growing stiffness against his backside...but he squealed when Moriarty reached around to cup him through the loose, white, trousers._

“ _Sh...sh...” His cruel owner purred against his neck, “It's going to feel good, Pet, I promise...”_

_Tears spilled from tightly closed eyelids as John felt Moriarty's teeth dig into his neck...hard. He didn't break the skin, but he was keen on leaving a mark. He twisted and busked to try and escape the horrible feeling of Moriarty's hand stroking his cock...which, much to John's horror and humiliation, was jerking to attention._

“ _See, there...what did I tell you, Johnny Boy? You'll love it...now...”_

 

* * *

 

“...get in the cab, John?”

The blonde man shook his head to dispel the flashback, struggling to focus on Sherlock's voice and not the phantom stinging pain in his neck. He reached a hand to rub at it as he slowly stepped towards the cab, nodding rapidly like nothing was wrong.

“Yes! Yes of course, s-sorry.” The words tumbling out a bit more rapidly than John wanted them to.

The lanky detective was staring at him critically, like he didn't believe John (which he didn't), but he said nothing. Instead, Sherlock slipped into the cab with an affirmative nod and motioned John in next to him. The battered man slipped inside and onto the first car seat he'd actually sat on in some years. John closed the cab door to try and hide his discomfort, pressing against it and staring out onto the streets as the cab pulled into the light morning traffic. The impulse to kneel on the floor was overwhelming and he could almost feel the Boss' hand in his hair to shove and hold him there. John flinched involuntarily at the phantom voice in his head, which was screaming at him to get his filthy carcass off the seat and on the floor...and make himself useful. ' _That's new leather, worthless mutt! I'll have you lick it fucking spotless if you so much as breath on it!'_ His eyes darted to the spot on the floor between Sherlock's feet. The detective, himself, was blissfully unaware of his companions' plight, too busy tapping away a sassy response to Mycroft.

John glanced tot he cabbie, who was also blissfully unaware of much of what his passengers were doing. He was more interested in nodding his head along with whatever song happened to be playing just slightly too loudly in his headphones. The blonde man watched the driver for a few more seconds before he shifted, uncertainly, towards Sherlock. John expected Sherlock to question him about it, but the man didn't look up or over...

So, John moved again, a bit closer and more forward so he perched closer to the edge of the seat. He flinched as he once more heard the phantom shouts from a cruel master in his head: ' _Whores don't sit on seats!'_ , and slipped down to the floor of the back seat. John felt his knees dig into the floor and the press of stiff seats against both sides of his body. It was tight and John could feel the harsh pain the pressure put on every bruise on his body. The pain was intense, yet John would take it over the horrible memories that refused to die.

John knew Sherlock was staring now, he could feel that cold intense stare on the top of his head as he stared at the detectives shoes. Frustrated humiliation swelled in his chest, calling forth unwilling tears. He hated himself for giving in to the submissive impulse, but he'd been so beaten so often for it that one week with a kind companion wasn't about to change everything. He wanted desperately to explain himself...or to make himself get back into his seat, but all John could manage was lowering his head even further and clenching his hands over his knees. The blonde man waited silently for the mocking to begin...for Sherlock to get angry with him for acting like...a dog. He waited for the belittling remarks...or even a command to _entertain._

But none were forthcoming.

Instead, John felt ling fingers stroke through his hair gently. The contact was unexpected, and did make him jump slightly, but it was soothing. Sherlock said nothing, accepting John's slow progress for what it was. He just continued to card smooth fingers in John's hair until the blonde man worked up enough courage to lift his eyes slowly to Sherlock's. The detective met his gaze evenly, he wasn't judging John. He wasn't mad. He removed his hand from John's hair to stroke his thumb over a single uncertain tear track on the beaten man's bruised face and shifted back to stare out the window like nothing was unusual about where John was.

John remained staring uncertainly at his strange companion, wondering how the man so easily ignored the strangeness of a solider turned sex slave. He watched for a long time, trying to scrutinize the lanky man like Sherlock scrutinized everyone else. All John managed to do was noticed how much better the man looked after a shower.

Without really thinking, John wiggled, painfully, closer and laid his head on Sherlock's thigh. He felt the man tense and almost winced in anticipation of a blow, moving to take his head away. But Sherlock stopped John, the tension vanishing as his long fingers returned to John's hair. They curled through the ragged blonde locks before coming to rest gently amongst them. John closed his eyes to dispel more tears arriving, feeling comforted, and disgusted, with being allowed to do something that was more like second nature now than anything. If Sherlock found it odd or uncomfortable...he wasn't saying and John wasn't asking.

As the cab approached their unknown destination, Sherlock removed his hand slowly and helped John wiggle back into his seat. If the cabbie had seen anything, he wasn't telling. Sherlock paid the fare and both men stepped out onto a fairly quiet street. Sherlock fixed his collar and started towards an inconspicuous looking shop, leaving John to follow in his wake. The blonde man only stared around for a moment before hurrying, as much as he could, to catch up.

“What're we doing here?” John asked gently, still embarrassed from the cab ride.

Sherlock seemed to have already forgotten the incident as he opened the door, a mischievous smile touching his lips. “ _Spiders_ , John...”


	10. Take Me Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some random fictitious figures who appear in the majority of this chapter. They aren't really OC's (because they're pretty much lacking every single detail)...just kind of randoms to move plot. But enjoy anyway!

John eased himself onto a nearby bench, exhausted from a morning of odd errand runs with his equally odd companion. He had intended to keep up with Sherlock for the rest of the day, but the lanky man noticed John staggering and insisted he rest while Sherlock finished off the last few chores. For a criminal mastermind, he really didn't have a very sinister agenda. Other than the odd body part in the flat of course. 

“Here, drink this and I'll be right back.” Sherlock assured as he handed John a paper cup with tea. 

The blonde man wrapped his hands around the hot cup and nodded, “Will you...um...be long?” He still wasn't exactly comfortable being outside in the city...he was even less comfortable being left alone in it.

Sherlock had his back half turned when the words registered, making him pause mid-step. His bright blue eyes turned to John, taking in the uncertain, but determined, looking man that was starting to curl into the bench just slightly. It looked like he was trying his very hardest to become the bench...to go unnoticed. The detective slowly turned back to John and crouched down carefully to be at eye level with his shrivelling companion.

“Fifteen minutes.” Sherlock assured with more tenderness in his voice than he'd meant to express, “Then we'll go home.” Hesitating before he put a careful hand on John's knee.

John perked, warring emotions of fear and pleasure passing through his eyes. “O-okay.” His voice choked with emotions, brought on by the thought of Sherlock's flat being his _home_. 

The dark haired detective lingered a moment longer, feeling uncertain about leaving John...but the man was in need of a rest. So, with a growing sense of dread, Sherlock eased to his feet and headed away from John. Each step carried him further away and increased his agitation tenfold, but he needed to finish one last task before they could return to the flat.

As Sherlock vanished from view, John struggled to remain in place. He forced himself to sit and drink the tea and forced himself not to panic at every unexpected noise or passing stranger. They didn't know him and he didn't know them...and that was the way things should be. They couldn't tell that the bruising on his face was from a beating given to him by his owner. They couldn't tell he was a used sex slave in a criminal night club. They probably thought he'd ended up on the wrong end of a bar fight. 

John glanced at his watch, Sherlock had barely been gone three minutes. The blonde man exhaled deeply and closed his eyes, trying to relax as he waited nervously on the bench. He supposed it was an irrational fear, it was highly unlikely that anything bad would happen to him while he waited there. Especially not when there were so many people around, right? John glanced at his watch again, four minutes barely passed. The man sighed and raised the cup to his lips again.

“Well, well, well...it _must_ be my lucky day...”

A bolt of undiluted terror shot through John's spine and the paper cup slipped from limp fingers, hot tea spilling across the ground as he turned his head to stare at the speaker. It was, as John feared, one of his clients from the club. A sort of tall and imposing man whose name John could not say he'd ever heard. Lingering at his back were two of his usual thugs that followed him around, the short on brains and big on brawn sort of thugs. 

John remained frozen, staring at the man who was casually tutting as he sat. “Waste of a hot beverage...” The blonde man was tempted to bolt, but his body refused to move...allowing his client to slip closer. “It's been a while, hasn't it lovely? Been about...two weeks now, hm?” His eyes roved over John with obvious intent, causing the terrified man to shudder with revulsion. 

As his unwanted suitor reached to put a hand on him, though, John stood abruptly. “D-don't...” He swallowed hard and straightened his spine. “Don't touch me.”

A slow frown touched the lips of his unwanted admirer, “I'm sorry, what did you just say? Did you just tell me _not_ to touch you?” The playful amusement fading from his tone, being replaced with a very cold and unforgiving sneer. “I don't think that's up to you.”

John took a step back as the thugs inched towards him, “I'm...I'm not working.”

“You're _always_ working. Especially if I'm paying.” The man growled low, making a subtle gesture to his thugs. 

The battered blonde solider reacted purely on instinct when one moved to grab him, catching the larger man with a heavy right handed blow. The thug dropped when John's knuckles cracked into his temple, stunning his other thuggish companion, their boss, and John himself. 

Rage flared in John's client's eyes, _“You little bitch!”_

In the blink of an eye, John was running. His whole body screamed bloody murder and he knew he wouldn't be able to run far. He was headed in the direction Sherlock had gone only a handful of minutes before, hoping to run into the dark haired man before his enraged client caught up to him. People scrambled to get out of his way as he bolted, haphazardly, away from his pursuers. His breath rasped heavily in his chest and burned through his lungs. Every step was agony, but he forced himself to keep up the pace as he worked his way through the thinning crowds. Most of the people were gone after a final series of sharp turns. John's body finally gave out and he staggered to a halt. His shaking hands scrambled to catch the wall for support as he hit his knees, wincing as more pain rocketed through his body.

John threw a despairing glance over his shoulder, cringing as he saw the men closing in on him. He wanted to run, but his body refused to get up from his position on the wall. There were few by-standers on the street, but some were drawing closer to see what was going on. John bowed his head, struggling to catch his breath. Rather suddenly, hands were grasping him. Two sets on each as they hauled him, unceremoniously, to his feet and wrenched a pitiful sounding whimper from his throat. 

“Sherlock!” John's last desperate plea ripping from his throat, surprising the blonde...because he'd called out for a man he really barely knew instead of screaming for help.

One of his captors shoved a discrete, but sharp, elbow into his battered ribs. The air rushed from his lungs as the world went briefly grey, John struggled not to pass out. It would be worse if he passed out. He could hear muted voices, concerned citizens asking what was going on and the voice of his unwanted suitor fabricating a lie.

“He's off his meds, you see, very sick this one...very sick. Don't worry, Johnny, we'll take care of you.” The man rough hand stroking over his cheek in a possessive manner. 

John tried to protest, tried to say anything, but all he could manage was a pathetic mumble of incoherent words. The citizens drew back and John felt resignation seeping into his bones. The thugs kept a tight hold on him as they hefted him down the street, just far enough away that no one would notice them slipping into a darkened side alley. By the time they were well away from any hope of help, the grey haze lifted from John's mind. 

His client loomed before him, a sick pleasure touching his face as he motioned at his thugs, “Turn him around!” 

The battered man bite back a sob as he was roughly turned and shoved against a nearby wall. The right side of his bruised face pressing into the harsh brick painfully. He squirmed, trying to pull his arms free from the vice-like holds...but stilled when he felt hands working around to the front of his trousers towards his belt. Rough hands tugged the leather sharply, pulling the loose belt free of the loops as the thugs forced John's arms behind him.

“ _No...n-no!”_ John's voice rising in his throat as he renewed his struggles, thrashing furiously against the strong hands clinging to his body. 

“Sh...shh...” His client whispered soothingly as he cinched the belt around John's wrists, “No one can hear you, baby...”

The blonde man clenched his eyes shut, his body shuddering as his client worked hands under his jumper. John felt tears rising when the roving hands moved from his chest to his trousers, flicking open the button and pulling down the fly. The hands toyed with his hips, pushing fabric slowly lower. John trembled and bucked, trying to avoid the horrible caressing hands that were stripping him slowly. His trousers slipped over the curve of his buttocks and he felt a large hand squeeze each plump globe. Another shrill noise escaped his throat in protest when he felt fingers return to the elastic band of his pants.

“Won't be needing these, love...” The man murmured into John's neck, one hand moving away for just a moment before John felt the sharp edge of a knife tickle his hip. 

John barely registered the knife before it was slicing off the last sparse piece of fabric that separated him from the man behind him. Once that fell away, and John was entirely exposed in the dank alleyway, the harsh hands resumed their careless caressing. Tears streamed down his battered face as one hand gripped his flaccid cock, stroking it to bring it to life while the other hand moved away entirely. John could hear the rustling of fabric and assumed his client was unfastening his own trousers. 

A sob broke in his chest and worked through his lips as he pressed harder against the wall, seeking solace in the pain that throbbed through his body and desperately trying to distance himself from what was about to happen. 

“That's it...what a good boy.”

John bit his lip, hard, to try and hold back another sob, but the sobs broke through, regardless, as John's own cock was forcefully roused with painfully harsh pulls. He struggled, one last time to get away...but it was futile. He was trapped, Sherlock wasn't going to save him, and he was going to get fucked in an alley by a client who was lusting after him. John felt both of the man's hands move to grasp his hips in preparation, he felt the indelicate press at his ass and cried openly.

“Sh-Sher...” John hiccoughed, trying to get the name out before his harsh client began.

“Get off him!” Sherlock's deep voice cracking through the air like a whip crack so suddenly that John's heart skipped a beat.

John's client released him and was in the middle of turning when he dropped like a rock to the alley's filthy floor. He laid there, mewling in pain, as his thugs released John to engage Sherlock. John, himself, pressed against the wall and just listened to the sounds of a fight. He listened to the sounds of flesh hitting flesh and the crunch of bodies hitting the ground. With two final, triumphant sounding, thumps...there was silence, broken only by the swift scuff of fine shoes over the harsh pavement. The blonde man flinched when lean hands pulled his trousers back up to his hips and then grasped his belt to set his arms free. Sherlock's hands were shaking, John could feel the barely perceptible tremble travel through the leather as the man fumbled with it. 

“John. I...I...” Sherlock was at a loss for what to say, his rage was just barely contained.

The battered man said nothing, turning as fast as he dared when his arms were free and banding his arms around the lithe man's chest. Tears streamed down his face shamefully as he pressed against Sherlock's warm chest. Sherlock, was clearly confused...but slowly he wrapped his arms around the shaking man's shoulders and held him silently. 

“T-take me home...” The blonde man mumbled into his chest, “Pl-please...”

Sherlock just nodded, keeping John in a protective embrace as they walked out of the alley and waved down a cab. John didn't curl up on the floor, he refused to unlatch himself from Sherlock at all. He kept pressed to the comforting presence of his tall companion, saying nothing the whole ride back to Baker Street...


	11. Caring Time

Sherlock stared pensively out the window of the flat, it was late at night...or perhaps it was early in the morning. He could no longer be bothered to check his watch, but the flat was still dark so it was at least still in the hours of early morning or late at night. The reason for his lack of caring about the passage of time? The battered body of his blonde companion curled next to him on the couch. John was finally, thankfully, asleep. His head resting tentatively on Sherlock's thigh with his back turned to the inside of the flat. 

John had been utterly silent when they arrived at Baker Street. He'd all but clung to Sherlock's side between the short distance from the cab to the flat's door, his eyes darted warily from side to side until they'd entered the relative _'safety'_ of Baker Street. Sherlock almost thought he'd have to start all his hard work all over again, he thought he'd have to build John back up and bring the solider back out...until the blonde man had gripped him by both wrists and slammed him, bodily, into the wall just before the steps leading to 221B.

The stout man had stared up into Sherlock's blue eyes with uncertain, desperate, shameful, need. A quiver raced through John's body while he had worked the nerve up to speak, “H-help me...”

At first, Sherlock had been confused. He was still sorting through all the reasons John could have for shoving him against the wall when John's plea had added to the jumbled reasoning. He hadn’t offered a response, letting John work through whatever actions he had intended to take.

“I...I need...” John's voice had been watery and shaking, but there was a touch of something raw...something Sherlock had to think twice about. _Lust._ John's grip had loosened, his hands had travelled to Sherlock's abdomen, as he had drawn closer to Sherlock's still form and dared to lean up towards the detective's passive lips.

Sherlock had been able to feel the shaking, hard, body pressed to his chest. He had also been privy to a hardness elsewhere pressing to his thigh with a desperately throbbing need. In an instant, Sherlock understood. John was still aroused, probably from the rough handling of his crude client. While Sherlock thought John should have been over that, perhaps it had been conditioned into him by his years as Moriarty's sex toy. Thoughts for later. A soft frown had fallen to his lips as he shook his head, “No, John.”

The stout ex-solider froze and had locked eyes with him once more, seeming confused and that much more desperate. “Pl-please... _please!_ ” John had whimpered, it had been a low, pitiful, sound which sent a tremor of some unnamed emotion through Sherlock's body. 

“John...no, John. You just _think_ this is what you want because that's what you've been _told_ to believe.” Sherlock had begun to explain to the clearly delirious man.

However, John had interrupted with a nearly tearful exclamation, “If you won't _fuck_ me, then at least _hit_ me, dammit!”He had lowered his head and rested it on Sherlock's chest with a soft sound of desperate distress. “J-just... _use_ me...”

John wanted to be handled, roughly or romantically, by Sherlock because the encounter in the alley had left him feeling...dirty. It probably had reminded him of all his other clients...and all his previous abuses. After a few days of normal life, or what passed for normal in 221B, it probably was a very unpleasant reminder. It had left John able to feel his client's hands and he wanted to bury the feelings under something, or someone, who could override the feeling of disgusted arousal he had been force to endure. 

“I...I don't want to _feel_ him...I...I can still _feel_ him...and the wall...and...and...” John had broken down into painful sounding sobs that hitched on Sherlock's chest, “Please... _M-master_...” The last words had been mumbled so low that Sherlock had nearly missed them.

Sherlock had seized John's face in an instant and forced it up to his, acting on an impulse to drive that hateful word, _Master_ , away from John's image of who Sherlock was. “I'm not your master, John, nor am I your commander or your captor.” His voice had been hard and John had shrunk back ever so slightly, “What I am is...” He had almost said _'your friend'_ , “...the man who is trying to save your life.” And then he had dared to press his firm lips to John's gaping, glistening, ones. The kiss was demanding and wicked and a bit salty from John's tears. Sherlock had broken away almost as swiftly as he'd started it, forcing himself to think that he'd kissed John because he wanted the man to trust him implicitly. “I'm not going to have sex with you, tonight, and I'm _never_ going to hit you...okay?” 

John had nodded silently. He looked suddenly exhausted as Sherlock had finally been able to lead him upstairs, where he allowed the lanky man to guide him to his current resting place. The incident had left him rather shocked it seemed. Not that Sherlock could blame him. 

He checked John was still sound asleep, for what may have been the hundredth time so far, before he slowly started to work the blonde's head off his lap. Sherlock, while wanting to stay and be there for John so the man would form a trusting bond with him, needed to get up and needed to leave the flat to think and to make an important call. John mumbled faintly when Sherlock gently lifted his head, but didn't wake. The detective carefully propped a pillow under the smaller man's head as he slowly gained his feet and crept away from the couch. John remained motionless as Sherlock neared the door and glanced back to him one last time.

Then, with the silence of a church mouse, Sherlock descended the steps and eased out into the cool London night...or morning. The lanky detective took a deep breath and pulled his mobile phone from his pocket, dialling a number without looking as he slowly took up pacing in front of the door. It rang twice, ( _'What on earth could he be doing at this hour?'_ He thought impatiently), and then came a somewhat breathless and irritated greeting.

“Have a bad dream, did we, _brother mine_?”

“Why are you out of breath?” Sherlock's brow furrowed, several theories coming to his mind in a blink. 

His brother huffed, “Just been filing.”The wild haired detective could sense the lie in his brother's tone, but before he could press further Mycroft spoke again. “I do hope you have a good reason for calling so early, Sherlock, I am rather busy after all.”

“I kissed him.” Sherlock said rather bluntly. 

Mycroft sighed slowly and Sherlock could imagine him rubbing at his brow in some sort of irritated exhaustion, “Why?”

“I set John up today...to be attacked by one of his more aggressive clients. It was rather clever, actually, I brought him along to errands I knew would be too much for him to handle. Once I left him alone I had one of my homeless network text an anonymous picture to the client, who was due to be in the area I left John at.” Mycroft gave a _'hm'_ of agreement that the plan had been clever. “I assumed it would push him to trust me faster...” Sherlock sighed, “He...wanted me to...help him and he was emotionally distressed and...I kissed him.”

Mycroft made a soft noise of thought, “Again, brother, _why_ did you kiss him?”

Sherlock sighed and paced back towards the flat. “Because I thought it would help with the situation.” His brother was oddly silent, “I _do not_ care for him, Mycroft, but I'm closer to getting information than your men ever were with this scheme!”

“Brother dear...caring is not an advantage, just remember that.” Mycroft said softly, “Good night.” Was all his brother said before hanging up the phone, but not before Sherlock heard an odd noise on the other end.

Sherlock scowled, starting to tap a cheeky text.  _**'Is that Gavin Lestrade, Brother mine?'** _ Smirking at his handy work as he turned back towards the dark door of Baker Street, the smirk, however, died on his lips when he saw a very bewildered looking John standing just inside the threshold. The blonde man must have woken up as soon as Sherlock left, had he heard the conversation?

John reached to rub at his eyes, wincing as he bumped and bruise, and took an uncertain step out of the doorway towards Sherlock. “I...I thought you were gone.”

Sherlock released the tense breath he'd been holding and offered the drowsy man a soft smile, “I had to take a call, didn't want to wake you.”

The blonde man sighed softly, looking towards his feet slowly. “I...wanted to say...I...I'm sorry. For earlier. It just...caught me off guard. It...it reminded me...”

Sherlock shook his head and moved towards John as the man bit back a tearful noise, “John, think nothing of it.” The detective assured as he watched the tired, battered, but strong, man quaking slightly on the edge of the doorway. “Mrs. Hudson wouldn't approve...but...” The lanky man reached into his pocket and retrieved a small packet of cigarettes, motioning John to join him on the curb.

John's face showed instant disgust, but gratitude, as he silently and stiffly joined his taller companion. He mumbled a quiet word of thanks before he took an offered cigarette and allowed Sherlock to light it for him. He took a lengthy pull, making his ribs tingle with pain, as Sherlock one of his own. For a few moments they stood in silence; the only noises, aside from the occasional cab passing by, the periodic inhales and exhales of nicotine laced breaths. 

“I know now probably isn't the best time...but why do you trust me?” Sherlock asked, not looking at John as he spoke around a mouthful of smoke. 

John exhaled a harsh puff through his nose, “That's easy.” He muttered, a touch of loathing in his voice as he glared disdainfully at the cigarette. “The Boss told me to.” Sherlock frowned subtly as he glanced towards the short man, who was giving him a very honest glance back. “He told me to trust you, showed me pictures before you arrived so I had some idea of who you were. Though, to be fair, I wasn't expecting you the night you arrived.” John shrugged and glanced back to the street to take another hated pull on the cigarette, “And...you haven't given me a reason not to. So far...you're the first person, besides Irene, who has actually given half a fuck.” The ex-solider mumbled faintly as he took another slow inhale of smoke.

“That's not true.” Sherlock's admission made John turn to him uncertainly, “I happen to give a _full_ fuck, John.” The lanky detective offered with a subtle smirk. 

The blonde man couldn't help but feel a small smile tug his lips as he looked at the tall, handsome, man he was tentatively beginning to think of as a friend. Unexpectedly, and much to John's own shock, a tiny giggle worked through his chest. Sherlock cocked a brow, surprised and pleased by the soft noise that was blooming into a rather contagious chuckle. It was a drastic change from the heartbroken sobbing and painful moans. Sherlock couldn't help but laugh along with John as they stood on the curb outside of their flat, smoking like a pair of teenagers who were trying not to be caught by their parents; a role, Sherlock supposed, aptly fit his landlady.

John moaned faintly as he reached a hand to his ribs and his giggle fit slowly subsided, “Don't do that, Sherlock, it hurts to laugh.” Though the tone was less than serious, suggesting John didn't at all mind the pain for the few short moments of joy. To be fair, though, Sherlock knew John intentionally hurt himself on a daily basis. 

“Shut up, John, you liked it.” Sherlock mumbled in a good-natured way, glad to see that John was in fact coming out of his beaten down shell...at least a little.

“Mm...yeah, you're right.” John said softly as his eyes turned towards the ever lightening sky, “I haven't laughed, really laughed, in a long time.”

“Can't imagine why...”

“I...I'm actually starting to think you're not as much of a criminal as you say you are.” John smiled faintly as he turned his gaze back t the dark haired detective and shrugged faintly, “Thanks...again.”

“For what?” 

John shrugged, “Everything.” Grinding his cigarette out on the pavement as he slowly turned to head back into the flat, “Suppose we should head in before Mrs. H notices we're out here.”

Sherlock took a final pull on his cigarette before he started to follow, “Mrs. _H_?” He questioned thoughtfully as they headed back up the steps to 221B.


	12. Addictions Make The World Go Round

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that I haven't updated in an age! I really was very busy with getting my life back on track! I'm sorry that you were waiting so long and that you were dying a bit to know what was going to happen! I'm sorry! I love you all so very much and I promise I will get this story out...if only little pieces at a time! I swear I won't leave it without an end. You're all very lovely people and I'm sorry you have to put up with a loser like me. But thank you for doing it and you're all lovely and amazing! Here is a little tiny update to keep you appeased while I get back into the swing of things! Love you darlings! Enjoy or don't! <3

_ John struggled against the harsh ropes restraining him, wet tears streaked down his face from the hot pain of the raw burns. His arms were trapped behind his back, his wrists and elbows crudely roped together in a way that made his shoulder scream in agony. A harsh hand gripped his hair, keeping his torso over the top of the table he was pressed against. Someone was behind him their hips roughly shoved against this ass to keep him pressed against the hard edge of the table.  _

_ Hands were at his hips, tugging at his filthy trousers. He screamed against the table and tried to, desperately, kick out at whoever was behind him. His bare heel met solid flesh, there was a stinging jolt of pain that shot up his leg, but John didn't care. For a blissful moment, the hands on his hips were gone. The grip on his hair tightened an instant before his face was lifted and then slammed against the table. Blood spurted from his nose as it crunched against the tabletop and his teeth lacerated his lips. The bitter-sweet tang of his own blood spurred John into a desperate frenzy. _

_ A series of blows to his defenceless ribs drove the wind, and most of the fight, out of him for a few terrifying seconds. It was all the time his silent tormentors needed to rope his legs to the table legs, ensuring he couldn't lash out again. A choke chain was slipped over his head, the rattle of his dog tags attached to the collar sent a shiver of pure contempt through him. _

“ _Get the fuck off me!” John shouted through a mouthful of bloody teeth. “Fuckers! Get off!” He screamed, trying to torque his upper body of the table._

_ The choke chain pulled tight, the pressure was unyielding. They'd fixed it to something John couldn't see. Agony spread like fire through his chest as he struggled to pull a thin, painful, gulp of air through the choking hold. It was a fruitless struggle and John collapsed against the table top with a gasping sob. _

“ _S-son's of...fucking...f-fucks!” John rasped as tears streaked through a thin layer of grime._

_ His tormentors said nothing, they hadn't spoken a word since they'd snatched him out of his cell. It was disturbing and frustrating, John wanted them to shout back! He wanted to hear their voices! The harsh hand's returned to his trousers once he seemed to settle, groping and grasping to try and work them off John's hips. His tormentor seemed frustrated by John's clothes...and the fact that they weren't coming off as easily as they'd planned. The silent 'snick' of a knife blade being opened made John stiffen and then struggle once more. _

“ _No! Don't!” He snapped, trying to jerk upright...but only managing to strangle himself again._

_ The blade sliced through his trousers and pants, only just enough to make a very disturbing hole. John screamed again, the sound strangled and harsh in his throat, thrashing wildly as more tears streamed from horrified eyes. Something warm and hard pressed roughly against his exposed flesh.  _

“ _No!_ **NO!** _” The pressure increased, “Stop! STOP IT!”_

 

* * *

 

The increased frequency of John's nightmares should have tipped Sherlock off days ago. He really should have noticed it long before, but he'd been focused on other things. Sherlock knew what withdrawal looked like. In fact, the lanky detective knew, intimately, what it felt like. So, when John first displayed subtle symptoms...it gave him pause. He wasn't aware that John was addicted to anything outside of cigarettes, and possibly alcohol. The short blonde was, however, a former doctor and was probably more adept at hiding such things. Not to mention that John was such a mess to start that one subtle thing would hardly stand out. 

John was making tea in the kitchen, unaware he was being watched intently by the lanky detective; who was currently perched in his chair much like a watchful gargoyle. His bright eyes scrutinized John's every move. Sherlock really should have seen it sooner, all the signs were there...the detective had only chosen to ignore them in favour of pursuing the larger picture (fixing John so he could tell Sherlock about Moriarty).

The dark haired detective made a thoughtful steeple under his chin with his long fingers as his mind raced over all the obvious signs. Starting with Irene's insisting that she pack John a small bag to take with him, Sherlock had noticed the odd shape at the bottom of the bag...but he'd been focused on getting John away from the club. Then there was John...he would sneak away from time to time with some sort of mumbled, nervous, excuse and lock himself in the bathroom. He would return looking utterly ashamed, but decidedly feeling better. Sherlock hadn't cared enough to ask or pursue the reasons, but it all made sense. Sherlock's quiet contemplations were halted as he watched John grow increasing frustrated, his trembling hands making it difficult to pour the tea without spilling a great deal on the counter. 

“ _Shit.”_ John grumbled, nearly dropping the teapot when he tried to hurriedly set it down. 

He gripped the counter-top, taking a deep breath to try and steady himself, before he reached for a cloth to mop up the mess he was making. John swallowed hard, gathered his resolve, and reached for a spoon to stir his tea. His fingers shuddered rather violently, causing the ex-doctor to drop the spoon with a clatter and curse. John tried twice more, each time the spoon fell from shaking fingers. On the third, and final try, John not only managed to drop the spoon...but he also managed to knock over the cup of hot tea.

The hollow thwack of the mug shattering on the floor was followed by a loud thud as John, who sidestepped the falling mug and stumbled, fell on his back. The blonde man lay exactly where he'd fallen, a shudder working through his body as he put his arm over his eyes and took a breath that sounded awfully close to a sob. “Dammit... _dammit!_ ” He shouted, his other fist pounding the floor with frustrated humiliation.

Sherlock rose slowly from his perch, “How long?” He asked, his voice a low rumble as he strode, gently and quietly, into the kitchen.

John didn't lift his arm, his breath hitched in his chest and his lips were tight. “A week and half.” The blonde admitted through a watery croak, there was no point in lying to Sherlock now.

The detective grunted softly, kneeling to start picking up the broken pieces of the mug. “How often do you use it?” His tone nothing but practical, as if he was asking John about the weather and not his drug habits.

“Depends.” The blonde man mumbled. He could sense Sherlock wanted to know more, so he beat the man to the questions. “It...it makes me not care...so much about all of this. It makes me not care that I've been kidnapped...sold...abused...fucked...” John's voice caught in his throat and he had to fight not to give in and sob. “I take it...when I can't take the world anymore. Some weeks that's everyday.” The man lifted his arm from his watery eyes to look at Sherlock, “Usually...it's every three days...”

Sherlock met his gaze evenly, though a knot formed in the pit of his stomach at the shame that shimmered in John's tearful gaze. “IV?” He asked, forcing himself to keep his tone even.

John nodded, looking away. 

“You have more?”

Again, John just nodded.

“At the club?” 

“Yes.”

Sherlock stood, nodding resolutely, “Right! Let's go.”

John looked up, more confused than ashamed. “Wh-what? N-now?” The abrupt change of the mood had the blonde man's head reeling. 

“If not now, then when?” Sherlock said as he turned on his heel to seek out his coat, dodging Mrs. Hudson as she appeared.

“Oh dear! John, are you alright dear?” The elderly landlady asked as she started into the kitchen, “I heard a loud thump and though it might have been Sherlock up to one of his experiments again...” 

“That's wonderful, Mrs. Hudson, but we have to go.” Sherlock interrupted, brushing by her to drop John's coat on his chest, “Hurry up, John!”

The blonde man was at a loss, still teary eyed as he scrambled, painfully, to his feet. “Sorry, Mrs. H. Everything's fine!” He said hurriedly, struggling to get his coat on and follow after his lanky companion. John called after Sherlock as he reached the steps, descending out of Mrs. Hudson's sights. “It's the middle of the day, Sherlock!”


	13. I Want You Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY, I'm a terrible person. I'm sorry. I know I kept promising this sooner, but I got rather sick. I'm getting better and thus, I've been able to post this. I'm sorry, again, for being a failure on the updating sooner thing. I'm really trying my hardest to get this done! I promise (and I do mean this one) that I won't leave it unfinished. I never have and never will live a fic undone. I may take a long time to get there, but I will get there. So stay lovely and I'm super sorry for the long wait.

John thought it would be more difficult to get into the club. But then again, before Sherlock had arrived, John had been certain there was no way to get out. It took the lanky man all of two minutes to convince the clerk to “pretend” to have never seen John. In that time, John couldn't help but stare at the list of beverages offered in the cafe to the unsuspecting normal people who just came for coffee. A shiver of disgust worked down his spine when he saw 'Blonde Roast: Temporarily Out of Stock'.

Tears perked in his eyes, despite his attempts to hide them. It was hard to see that he was just a product to be bought and sold. It was hard to see that he was just a selection on a board without a name or face or feelings. Moriarty was a sick, cruel, man...he knew how to keep his products in line. 

Sherlock's lithe hand startled him as it came to rest on his shoulder, squeezing gently as his bright eyes found John's. “You alright...?”

John took a deep breath, shaking his head. “Just...it's hard to see that...that I've been reduced to a novelty...”

The lanky man nodded slowly, he supposed it was a bit of a shock for John. He moved to pull away, “If you'd rather wait here―”

“ _No!”_ John yelped suddenly and gripped Sherlock's arm harshly!

His eyes were round with fear as his breath quickened, his voice had been edged with hysteria, and Sherlock imagined he was thinking of the last time Sherlock left him alone in public. John's outburst drew a great deal of attention, causing the buzz of cafe conversation to diminish, which didn't help John's general look of panic. 

Sherlock was careful to remain stoic, even though John's grip was bruising his arm, as he looked to the cashier meaningfully. The man cleared his throat, loudly, and the noise and conversations resumed. Any who continued to stare were met with warning glares as Sherlock turned his placid eyes back to John, who was struggling to regain his composure.

His terrified eyes stared imploringly at Sherlock, horrible shame started to creep up his face, as he heaved shuddering gasps. “D-don't...I...s-sorry...” 

The detective slowly, carefully, placed one hand over one of John's. “I'm not going to leave you and I’m not going to let anyone hurt you, John.” The panicking man nodded, he knew that...he did. However, John was struggling through withdrawals, which probably didn't help with the stress of being in a place where he was nothing important. “Promise...alright?”

John still looked panicked, but managed a tiny nod as he eased his grip on Sherlock's arm. The lithe detective curled steady, pale, fingers around John's shaking hand and started to lead him through the door and down the steps. He wondered if John had ever seen that entrance, he suspected he had...but it probably had been several long years.

“I'm sorry, Sherlock...” John whispered as his fingers curled around Sherlock's. “I'm so sorry...I just...panicked...” He sounded more ashamed than panicked, which Sherlock thought of as an improvement. “I know...you think I'm probably like this all the time...but I swear I used to be so...so...” A sob caught in his throat.

Sherlock stopped and carefully turned to the shuddering mess of a man behind him. John was, for once, eye-level with him (thanks to the steps) and Sherlock stared meaningfully into his broken gaze...looking into that spark of life buried behind years of torments.

“John...you're a very strong man, who has been through hell.” Sherlock said softly, reaching a careful hand to stroke the tears from John's cheeks. “It's understandable...and expected...and I don't―” _'love you less for it'_ Sherlock almost said, feeling the urge to kiss John's trembling lips. But he forced it down, he had to think of the case. “―think anything less of you because of it. Now, let's get you what you need to feel better, okay?” His voice slightly strangled as he fought against the desire to admit he was developing feelings fr a man he was using.

John nodded, a trembling smile touched his lips, and they resumed their trek down the stairs and through the final door into the club. Soft music played and voices echoed around the empty club. The others were clearly practising in the back, unaware that John had returned.

“God...I can't...I can't deal with them right now.” John whispered, stalling just inside the door as he stared around the empty club with a shudder of revulsion and contentment. 

Sherlock squeezed his hand reassuringly and pulled John, gently, behind him. His height and coat enough to hide John from view...though it was still obvious there was someone behind Sherlock. John wasn't sure that would be enough to deter his companions, mostly because he was certain they'd recognize him just for being with Sherlock. Even so, he followed the gentle tug that kept him right behind Sherlock's sweeping strides.

“Oh, Mister Holmes!” He heard someone saying over the music, “And...company?”

“Yes.” Was all the tall man offered in a very dismissive tone, “Continue your practice.”

John winced and almost tripped when he heard footsteps coming closer, “How's John?”

Sherlock stopped and straightened, his imposing presence suddenly engulfed the room. “Continue. Your. Practice.” His voice was cold and unyielding as he bit off each word commandingly. It was the same tone Sherlock had used the first night they'd met to keep his companions away.

And, just like the first time, it was enough to keep them at bay. John shuddered hard against Sherlock's back, so grateful that he didn't have to face them. He couldn't face them when he was so out of sorts...he was their rock and if they saw him so pathetic...he'd never forgive himself. Sherlock's guiding pull tugged him again, bringing him across the room and through the dressing room doors. Only once they swung shut, did John allow himself to ease away from Sherlock.

“You terrify them.” John murmured breathlessly.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder slightly, concern etching his brow. “Does that bother you?”

John stared a moment into the very impassive, strong, gaze that could probably go through walls. He hesitated a moment, arching up on his tip-toes to press a very quick and chaste kiss to the side of Sherlock's lips. Lips which quirked a bit at the contact, but otherwise stayed put. John blushed and shook his head as he stepped away from the man and started down the familiar row of vanities. 

“No, it doesn't.”

Sherlock blinked and then followed him closely down the long row of vanities to John's place. The small desk was still overflowing with things, including the bottle of wine from his anniversary night. John paid it all no mind, simply kneeling to fiddle with the secret compartment, but Sherlock took it all in.

His bright eyes took in the make-up. All expensive brands, some which couldn't be found in London, and all very well suited to John's skin and eye tones. The wine was actually very rare, probably something Mycroft would have enjoyed. Sherlock's eyes drifted to the mirror and stopped over the picture of John and his companions in front of a statue. John's eyes...were entirely dead. His smile was forced. He'd known then that there was no escape, he'd known then that Moriarty was paying for the trip only to prove that even if he let John wander...John wasn't free. Sherlock reached out to trace a slender finger over John's picture self.

“I'm so sorry.” 

The blonde man slowly eased himself from under the desk, looking up to where Sherlock's hand remained on the picture. His throat constricted as he swallowed down a surge of emotions, “It's...not your fault.” John traced shaking fingers over the wrapped package in his hand. “It wasn't always bad times. I got to travel a lot.” John shrugged slowly.

Sherlock looked down at him, he wanted to say something foolish...something to suggest he cared. Instead, he cleared his throat and gestured to the package. “That's it then?”

John nodded, pushing through his turmoil to peel back the paper to reveal a very shiny black box, tied with a sickly red ribbon, underneath. John stiffened and Sherlock knew that wasn't the box he'd been expecting to find. Judging by the way his eyes went round and his body started to shake...it was from Moriarty. 

“Shit...” John hissed, a hint of frustrated fear working in his voice, “Sh-shit.” He ran a shaking hand through his hair and fought down the rest of his curses...they wouldn't do him any good. “I...I'm going to...open it...” He murmured, more for himself than or Sherlock. He needed to convince himself to open the ominous black box. John's lips thinned and with a terrified determination...he pulled the ribbon loose to open the box.

Sherlock watched with morbid curiosity, his eyebrow arching when the top came away and John's fearful shaking increased tenfold. Within the box, cradled in a bed of white silk, was a very dull and dirty chain...a choke chain. Attached in the place of pet tags...were dog tags. Sherlock didn't have to ask to know they were John's. Nor did he need confirmation that this was a device used on John in the past. The fact that it was still filthy suggested Moriarty had kept it that way to be able to throw it in John's face one day...like today. The box feel from John's trembling fingers, causing the horrible collar to tumble onto the floor with a near silent clinking. John flinched at the metallic click from the dog tags and clamped his hands over his ears to try and drown out the horrible clinking...

_ 'Get on your knees, Solider!'  _ John winced and dug his nails into his scalp as the intrusive voice screamed commands and the dog tags jingled. He felt the horrible tug of of the chain around his neck as nightmares threatened to overwhelm him.  _'That's it...swallow it like a good little Solider...'_ John felt tears of frustration well in his eyes as he struggled through his memories. His eyes locked on the dog tags and a bitter hatred broke in his chest.

“B-bastard...” John gasped, shaking his head. _“Damn him!”_ He lashed out and sent the box and collar skittering a few feet away. The lanky detective sidestepped the objects as the shot by. “He...took it all...” John had good reason to be so upset...after all the trouble it had been for him to get there only to find a tormenting memory and no relief like he wanted.

Sherlock could see John crumbling before his eyes, all his hard work to build him up so he would tell him secrets was coming undone. The detective made a steeple with his hands as he tried to think of how to help before he lost John to his withdrawals...which were going to break him. “If you still have some of the syringes...I could probably identify the compounds...” Sherlock offered carefully. 

“I'll have recovered by the time you figure it out!” John snapped, glaring at the distant dog tags as he felt sobs rise to his lips. “Christ!” He didn't want to cry again.

Neither did Sherlock, he racked his mind for something...anything. Looking from John on the floor, to John in the picture, and then the dressing room doors. His bright eyes blazed with sudden excitement, which he had to hide so John wouldn't think he was enjoying this too much. 

“You don't need it.” Sherlock said as he turned back to John, who was confused.

“I do...though...” John shook his head, “I do!” He hated admitting that he was addicted, but it seemed to be a family trait.

Sherlock shook his head, “No...no you don't. You _think_ you do...but if all it does is make you not care, then I know there's something else you can do to take your mind off things...at least until we can get you some more.”

John was...baffled, but he supposed there was nothing to lose. Especially since the Boss had taken his stash and replaced it with a terrible gift. John struggled through another round of phantom voices as he allowed Sherlock to help him to his feet. _'You like that, Captain Whore?' Huh? You like being shagged rough, huh?'_ John could feel the hand in his hair, holding him down. _'Y-yes...'_ The harsh jerk that came with the displeasure... _'What?'_ John's throat was tight, but he brushed himself off like nothing was wrong. _'Yes, Sir!'_

Sherlock made certain John was at least on his feet before he hurried out of the dressing room, John lingered where he was. He didn't want to face his companions, but surely they knew he was there. They weren't stupid and it wasn't like they didn't know he'd gone with Sherlock. Sherlock poked his head back through and beckoned to John.

“Come on.”

The blonde man sighed heavily and stepped through, expecting his companions to swarm all over him. Expecting the tears that would flow when they saw how pathetic he was. It took him several long seconds to realize the club was completely empty! The silence was astounding. John was certain he'd never seen the place entirely empty before and it was surreal.

“H-how...? Wh-where...?”

Sherlock offered a gentle smile and took John by the hand, “You said it before...I'm frightening.” 

John blushed just a bit, he couldn't say he didn't like the way Sherlock's nimble hand wrapped around his. Nor could he deny he liked the way Sherlock looked at him. The blonde man wiped his eyes with the back of his free hand and looked to Sherlock uncertainly.

“So...why send them away?” 

The lithe man gestured to one of the stages, the golden pole gleaming in the dim lights. “I know you love it. I imagine it makes you feel powerful and... _seductive_. You don't need to take anything if you're dancing...” Sherlock paused a moment to give John a heated glance, “So dance for me, John Watson.”

John felt a tingle at the base of his spine at the way his name sounded in Sherlock's mouth. He could feel the frustration and tears start to fade away at the very thought of dancing for Sherlock. He'd only done it that one time...

“S-say it...once more...”

Sherlock stepped in close, letting John feel his comforting presence swell around him, and leaned to whisper in a baritone rumble against John's ear. “Dance for me... _John...Watson..._ ”

A shudder worked through his body, but it wasn't one of frustration or disgust. John inhaled deeply, taking a deep breathe of Sherlock. The man smelled of chemical's and a very fancy cologne. His hands still trembled and his body still demanded to be placated with a drug...but his mind was eased as he twirled around the lithe man and strolled onto the stage. He flexed his shaking hands and rolled his shoulders, taking a final deep breath as he laid a hand on the sturdy pole.

Sherlock wasn't wrong. He felt so much better up there on that stage, like nothing mattered. His body still craved the drugs, but John knew he could deal with the bodily needs if only he could jump the hurdle of what his mind needed. Apparently Sherlock had done it for him.

John's body fell out of it's stiff and frustrated mold, his hips curved and his back arched. A powerful feeling came back to him and the nightmarish voices died as he turned a hot glance to Sherlock. The dark haired man almost missed the chair he was aiming to sit in when John flashed him a gaze so hot it was tangible. The blonde man offered a feline smile before he shed his coat, carefully shrugging his way out of it as he turned his back to Sherlock. 

The coat dropped to the stage as John easily kicked out of his shoes and approached the pole like a predator stalking prey. His hands wrapped around it's cool diameter and his shoulders bunched as he kicked his legs off the ground. They fanned out in an arc that brought him full circle around, facing his rapt audience of one. John bit down on his lower lip, teasing the first button of his shirt down and then another...watching the pale man's throat bob.

John smirked and tutted, wrapping one arm around the pole and swinging himself gracefully around. He teased the last few buttons open and shrugged the shirt halfway down his back as his slowly curved his hips down against the pole. Sherlock's subtle hitch of breath assured John he was definitely doing the right thing. 

He arched his back and turned, shimming up the pole in a way Sherlock thought wasn't possible. His body arched and curved around the pole like water around a rock, it was fluid and it was breathtaking. Sherlock barely realized he'd moved closer to the stage...until John was suddenly knelt before him and gripping him by the lapels.

The blonde man's lips pressed firmly to his, drawing a primal noise right out of Sherlock's throat. His nimble fingers wrapped around John's waist, pulling the man even closer. John's lips parted against his, inviting Sherlock's tongue to conquer his. Sherlock was sure it was just pent up energy from the case spurring him on, or at least that was what he planned to tell himself as he pulled away from John's hot mouth to gasp for breath. 

“Mm...Sherlock...” John gasped, his forehead still pressed to Sherlock's, “I'm sorry...I know you said---”

Sherlock was starting to struggle out of his coat, one of his lithe hands splaying on John's chest. “I want you. Right now.”

John shuddered, a gasp escaping his lips. “A-again...tell me again...”

Sherlock's mouth locked over his as the lithe detective eased John onto his back on the stage. He pulled away with a groan and purred in John's ear. “I want you, right now, _John._ ”


	14. Dinner?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this my Christmas gift for you, I'm going away for the holidays and I won't be touching this story until the new year. Sad as that may seem to many of you, I just can't juggle holidays and hobbies and work as well as I used to. So enjoy this and have a merry one! Thank you for reading all my lovelies and I'll see you in the new year!

John's heart thrummed wildly when his tall companion pressed him backwards onto the stage. A rush of fear and excitement caused him to shiver as his shoulders pressed against the hard wood. Sherlock leaned over him like some kind of prowling predator, his eyes fixed on John's tantalizingly bared chest. It wasn't as bruised as Sherlock recalled, which brought some amount of pleasure to the shaggy haired man...knowing John was healing under his care. His slender fingers dared to trace the edges of a particularly long bruise...one resulting from the beating John had taken the night Sherlock had taken him from the club. Sherlock felt a stab of...possession. He wanted to have John...which was a strange feeling, since the tall man claimed he had no need of such baser desires. John's hands twisted in Sherlock's shirt, revelling in the unbelievable softness of the rich violet fabric, while the slender man captured his lips for a searing kiss. 

The kiss dragged a wanton moan from somewhere deep inside John's chest, smooth hands traced over his flesh as their lips broke apart with a sultry pop and ragged gasps for breath. God, they sounded like horny teenagers giving it their first go! Sherlock's eyes swirled wildly, his calm facade drowning in the sudden waves of unleashed desire. His nimble fingers were warm to the touch as they danced over John's skin, drawing forth a symphony of beautifully promiscuous gasps from John's soft lips. The blonde man dared to tug up the, ungodly soft, shirt that kept him from Sherlock's pristine skin. He exposed just enough of the man's stomach to see a trail of curling, dark, hairs leading south from his navel; the trail a gloriously stark contrast against his appealing pale skin.

Sherlock's hot breath on his neck stilled his hands as they tentatively eased around the taller man's waist, a stray curl brushing against his cheek an instant before John felt Sherlock's lips on his pulse. No doubt he was deducing something from the way John's heartbeat was hammering through him. He'd become accustomed to the man's rapid observations, it actually was breathtaking to watch Sherlock when he got into full deductive mood. John shuddered at the thought of that racing mind zeroing in on him. 

“Your pulse increased...” Sherlock's voice was a seductive rumble in his ear, “...breathing rate has spiked as well...” The taller man purred as his long fingers feathered over John's collar bone. “...you're blushing...” John felt heat rise to his cheeks as Sherlock lifted his face, his lips coming to hover a mere breath from John's. “...pupils dilated...” Sherlock whispered, a feline smile touching the corner of his lips. “I dare say you like this, Watson.”

John swallowed thickly, any coherent thoughts he'd had or witty remarks were suddenly lost as he stared into Sherlock Holmes' wild eyes. There was a desire there, one John knew well. To claim....to conquer. To possess. Sherlock desired the man he had under him as much as John desired the man over him. Some weeks ago, John would have sworn it was impossible for him to feel like that. He would have sworn that he was broken beyond repair, but Sherlock Holmes was proving there was a tiny spark of something left in him that wasn't. He desired Sherlock, truly coveted the man that was over him. Not because he was forced to, not because Sherlock expected him to repay him...but because John actually wanted to.

Unexpectedly, John felt a rush of tears and heard a watery sob break in his chest! Sherlock startled just a bit and attempted to pull away, to give John space. John gripped him rather desperately, “I-I'm sorry.” He gasped raggedly, “I'm not...upset...” His fingers clenching the fabric so Sherlock wouldn't leave him, he didn't want him to leave!

Sherlock hesitated, his long fingers tentatively returning to stroke over John's tear dampened cheek. “Then why these?”

John closed his eyes at Sherlock's gentle touch, “I...I forgot what this was like. This...wanting to be wanted.”

The dark haired man's lips curled into a sympathetic frown as drew a gentle thumb over the man's lips. “I would hope, John, that you would never do something I want just to please me.” He traced his fingers gently over John's throat, “I wonder how long it's been since someone has given you what your desired...”

The blonde man shuddered under Sherlock's intense gaze, his hands tentatively stroking the pale skin as he eased his hold on the silken shirt. It was true...John couldn't recall the last time he'd been given something he wanted, intimately or otherwise. He'd pushed away his desires, but now...now they all started to come back. Sherlock's lips curved slowly in a knowing way and he eased himself away, making John moan softly and try to hold onto him. Sherlock's slender hands took hold of John's to pull the man gently to his feet. He tucked John's shirt in carefully and pressed a gentle kiss to the man's parted lips.

“Tonight...John Watson...we'll do things your way. The way you need and want them to go. Tonight... _you're in control_ and your every wish is mine to fulfil.” Sherlock rumbled softly against John's lips. He desired John...wanted him then and there, but the man was fragile...in a sense. Having John on the stage in the club was truly not very romantic, not that that held interest to Sherlock, but he knew it was a point of interest for John. And Sherlock was very interested in John.

John moaned, the sound working through his chest in the most sinfully pleasant way, and Sherlock felt his cock twitch in response. He'd never been so effected by such baser needs, then again, he'd never had someone like John Watson in his life. 

“Back to Baker Street...I'll ravish you there...” Sherlock promised softly.

John blushed, he wanted to have Sherlock ravish him that very moment, his body was practically on fire with desire. Then again, doing such things in the club would taint that desire, in John's mind. Sherlock obviously recognized this as he helped John into his coat with a gentle smile. John tentatively kissed Sherlock's cheek, tucking the ungodly sinful shirt back into the front of the lanky man's trousers as Sherlock eased into his long coat. Sherlock took John's hand and pressed he lips over the man's knuckles.

“But, before the fun starts...” Sherlock purred, _“Dinner?”_

* * *

 

 

John's desires smoldered all through dinner, which turned out to be at a rather quaint and cozy cafe owned by a man (John thought he'd introduced himself as Angelo) that Sherlock had helped in some way. He'd been more than happy to set the pair up with a rather romantic booth with a candle. John found the food was rather good, but the company was better than any he'd ever kept before. He watched the lanky man eat and drink, amazed at the almost poetic way he seemed to lift food to his lips. 

It was obvious that Sherlock came from money, his posh style and his elegant eating habits gave it away. The blonde man found the way Sherlock ate not only mesmerizing, but incredibly sexy. He found himself staring far too long for his own good...resulting in John dropping his fair share of the pasta back to his plate. Sherlock watched John with equal intensity, but he managed to avoid spilling a spec of food.

John dropped yet another forkful with a frustrated blush, mumbling a faint curse. He started to scoop the lost forkful back up, when Sherlock's fork of elegantly twirled pasta invaded his vision. John's yes turned towards the smirking man, blushing brightly as that look sent a spike of desire straight to his groin. He parted his lips slowly and allowed Sherlock to ease the pasta into his mouth, he savoured it with a gentle moan.

“Mm...you have to tell Angelo his food is too good...” John mumbled through the mouthful.

“Hm.” Sherlock responded as he slipped closer to John, making the man set his cutlery down. “You've hardly eaten any so I'm not certain you have and adept idea of the food, John.” The taller man all but purred as he settled in close and elegantly twirled John's pasta for him.

John blushed brightly, he thought to protest...but instead just parted his lips and allowed Sherlock to feed him. The food was really great, but it was even better now that Sherlock's body was pressing next to his. The desire between the two of them was tangible and John couldn't help but stroke one hand on Sherlock's thigh. The shaggy haired man inhaled sharply, clearly affected by the suggestive strokes as his eyes narrowed on John.

The ex-solider grinned innocently as he savoured another bite and rolled his eyes with pleasure. He really did love this...this almost normalcy of having a romantic engagement with someone who wanted him. Sherlock leaned over to steal a gentle kiss, reminding John that there was more to their evening. His body buzzed with anticipation as he pressed his lips back against Sherlock's. The lean man made a soft humming sound and John knew he was probably thinking the same thing. The kiss was gentle and short, since Sherlock was still keen on feeding John as much as he was keen on taking him then and there. 

“Sherlock...” John moaned through another bite of food that was, again, followed by a kiss. “Are you hoping to make me horny when I eat from now on?”

“Hm...would that be a bad thing?” The detective smirked softly.

John rolled his eyes and stroked his hand a littler higher on Sherlock's thigh, then moved it over his fly. “I _want_ dessert.”

A practical purr worked in the man's throat, his eyelids drooping pleasantly as he stared at John a long time. He seemed to relent, as soon as he started to squirm, because he started to grab their coats. Sherlock was already pressing John out of the booth when Angelo came by to check on them, “Thank you.” John smiled and blushed as Sherlock urged him out of the cafe to the sounds of a merrily giggling Angelo...

 

* * *

 

It was the second time in a short amount of weeks that the door to the Baker Street flat was slammed open by a the pair in rather passionate embrace. This time, however, the desperation was gone and Sherlock was the one shoving John against the wall. The smaller man didn't resist being handled by Sherlock, it was a willing submission to a man he adored...which was saying a lot given how short a time they'd known one another! John chalked it up to the way Sherlock had pulled him away from the edge...he'd really been contemplating a desperate way out when Sherlock swooped in.

Sherlock's hands splayed over his panting chest while their lips sealed perfectly. Mrs. Hudson would have a terrible fright if she walked out then, or she'd certainly have something to gossip about! Sherlock seemed to know John's thoughts, even as John's own hands were scrambling for purchase on Sherlock's hips. 

His taller companion smoothed his tongue over John's as he broke the kiss and gasped for breath, his eyes blazing and heart racing. “I think the cabbie was enjoying the show...”

John panted and swallowed, smiling widely. They'd certainly given the cabbie quite the show on the ride over, poor bloke probably was used to young couples getting frisky, but not likely two full grown men acting like frisky teens. Sherlock had all but jumped him as soon as the cab started away to their destination. His lips had found John's neck before his lean figure was sprawling over John's. John hadn't remotely thought to object, his hands had dug into Sherlock's hair and a short cry of pleasure had wormed out of his mouth. The cabbie had slowed, as if to make them get out, but Sherlock had thrown more money at him without even taking his lips from John's skin. John was almost ashamed to admit that he'd nearly embarrassed himself in the cab, he'd almost gone off in the cab. Luckily...they'd arrived at the flat before it came to that.

“Where do you want me, John?” Sherlock's deep voice dragged him back to the present with a soft moan.

“Behind me...oh god, Sherlock, I _need you_ behind me!” John urged in a ragged gasp, begging...but because he actually wanted to this time...not because it was required.

Sherlock's breath was hot on his cheek as the lean man pressed his body against John's, pinning him to the wall fully and letting him feel the throb of his heart...the rasp of his breaths...the heat of his arousal...the hardness against his stomach. 

“Ah, mm, scratch that...” John mumbled as his hands desperately clung to Sherlock, “I want to _taste_ you first...” It was hard to deny the want when Sherlock's cock was rubbing against him rather eagerly...and temptingly.

Sherlock swallowed hard, he wanted to debate John's desire...but he could feel himself nodding. He'd be lying to himself if he didn't admit he wanted John's lips on him...frankly, he'd subconsciously retained the tidbit about John having the nicest mouth in the club. While the comment itself was spoken in the worst sort of way...Sherlock couldn't help but wonder what that kind of mouth might be like. He took a final breath and broke away to pull John up the stairs after him...he intended to make it to the bedroom...but John was spinning him before they barely crossed into the flat and closed the door. 

John’s firm, warm, lips locked over his once more. A bit more demanding as he worked the detective backwards towards the sofa. Sherlock scrambled to keep his footing while his long fingers delved through John's hair...god...they _were_ like a young couple just going at it for the first time!Sherlock's calves bumped into the sofa an instant before he fell back into it, dragging John down onto him. Both Sherlock and John wined, breaking apart to gasp ragged breaths. Sherlock's fingers traced lazily through John's hair while the blonde man nuzzled into the crook of his neck. John had to wait out the throb of pain from his still healing body before he could continue, but as he did so...his hand moved to toy with Sherlock's fly.

The detective moaned gently and laid his head back on the sofa, closing his eyes as John tugged the zipper down and then reached inside, his rough hand was remarkably well suited for stroking the length of Sherlock's cock through the fabric of his pants. John smirked against Sherlock's neck, easing back to lick his lips hungrily and wiggle himself, very provocatively, off Sherlock's lap. He shoved Sherlock's knees apart and settled himself between them...not feeling any disgust or repulsion...he really desired to do this for Sherlock.

The drake haired man lifted his head to watch John skillfully tugging his trousers and pants just far enough out of the way to free his much too interested cock. It throbbed against his stomach as John eyed it with, in Sherlock's mind surprising, desire. John's eyes met his a moment before the blonde ran a smooth hand long the underside of his cock. He leaned over Sherlock's hips with an eager sort of hum and let his tongue follow almost immediately after where his hand had traced...leaving a cooling trail that made Sherlock shudder.

John seemed pleased with himself...he enjoyed the way Sherlock seemed to enjoy him. Not only that, but Sherlock wasn't making demands, so John continued at his own pace...which wasn't slow just then. He flicked his tongue out once to circle the head of Sherlock's cock, then eased his moistened lips over it. He savoured it like he'd savoured the food earlier, Sherlock's eyelids fluttered as he cursed the delicious warmth sliding over him. John worked his way down, inch by inch.

“Tongues should not, ngh, should _not_ be able to do that, Watson.” Sherlock ground out, which made John hum playfully. He knew full well that what he was doing, as he slide his mouth lower on Sherlock's cock, wasn't exactly the “standard” blow job. He'd learned a thing or two, servicing on his knees, on how to make his clients weak in the knees...it paid off in the long run, because they tipped bigger that way. It boosted John's will, of course, since it offered power over those who thought they had power over him. Not that he would mind Sherlock dominating him at this point...

Sherlock grunted in surprise as John's tongue rubbed him erotically while his mouth continued to work down his full length...then back up. A rhythm was being set...one that was driving the detective mad. He gripped his long fingers into the sofa to ground himself, but it was no good...John had him leaking...on the edge in mere moments. Like some kind of virgin, Sherlock was panting and shaking. He tightened an urgent hand in John's hair, his witty and intelligent through leaving him without the means to communicate in his usual fashion. John just increased the pace, his lips sliding over Sherlock's throbbing cock with an almost hungry desire. 

That was really all it took for Sherlock to be pushed beyond the edge, his orgasm coming as a bit of an embarrassed shock to him. John wasn't surprised, he was actually all too pleased, keeping his lips sealed over Sherlock until the pulsing slowed. Sherlock fought down a whimper as he tugged the man's hair enough to make John look up at him, the blonde man eased his mouth off Sherlock's softening cock...giving the head a sultry lick as he eased back to nuzzle Sherlock's thigh.

“That...should be...illegal...” Sherlock breathed.

John smirked, “Maybe it is.”

Whether it was or wasn’t', Sherlock didn’t linger on the thought's long. John was still buzzing with desire and Sherlock was eager to return the favour, “You're not going to be able to walk straight when I'm done with you...” 

John blushed and moaned gently, “Is...that a threat?”

Sherlock licked his lips as he stared down at the all too appealing John in his lap, his cock twitched with interest, “It's a _promise_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thanks to my new Beta reader, sherlockfan! Your input is greatly appreciated!


	15. It Can't Be Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so let me start out with saying...I'm very sorry that I kind of went on hiatus. I was feeling a bit overwhelmed in my real life and my fan fiction fell to the wayside. I haven't forgotten about this fic and as I always say, I will always finish a story. It may take forever, but I will finish it. I am sorry it took me this long to update, but I really needed to take a break and get things back on track. Hopefully you few that still read this will understand, I completely understand if you don't want to wait around for updates that take a long time to come. Unfortunately I think I'll have to keep updates to once a month at the very least. If I mange more then that's amazing, but I will try my very best to update once a month. So thank you for understanding and thank you for reading. I hope this update is worth the wait, if not, I'm sorry. If you want to keep more up to date with my life, go check out my tumblr. Thank you lovelies for being a great fan base and waiting or not waiting.

Sherlock took John by the hand, gently leading him down the hall towards his bedroom. Every few steps, he stopped to kiss John with passion so raw it almost brought John to his knees. He also slowly divested the man of his clothes. First to go was the hideous pullover.

Another kiss…Sherlock’s suit jacket. Kiss...John’s shirt, then Sherlock’s.

By the time they reached Sherlock’s room, Sherlock was stepping backwards out of his pants with his lips locked firmly with John’s. Their breaths ragged and loud as they panted through the passionate kiss.

John’s fingers trembled as he finally pressed his hands on Sherlock’s pristine skin. He was cool to the touch, and John briefly thought the man might have poor circulation…before Sherlock’s long fingers stroked down his chest, smoothing down John’s body to where his cock bobbed, eager for attention. John almost hit his knees when the long, cool, fingers wrapped about his cock. Sherlock’s tenderness was killing him in the best way.

The taller man smirked as he broke the kiss, he knew John was ready and waiting. He knew John was desperate to have him. He gave John’s cock one gentle stroke, a promise that this would be good…this would be exactly what he needed. John shivered, nodding silently to the unspoken question. He wanted it…and he was ready.

Sherlock guided the blonde to the bed with the softest of touches, letting John sink on the soft bed and get comfortable. He stared at John, taking in the whole of him…the bruises…the scars…the muscle…the solider…the doctor.

John shifted under Sherlock’s stare, blushing. “W-what?”

Sherlock smiled slowly as he carefully climbed onto the bed. “You’re gorgeous.” He breathed, leaning over John’s body to press a soft kiss to his lips.

The blonde felt the heat of the blush through his body…and the heat of Sherlock’s aroused cock at his thigh. He trembled a bit, feeling the same rush of tears he’d felt not long ago in the club. The tears that were brought on by a tender, caring, man who truly didn’t care if John was a whore or a solider.

A gentle brush of a cool hand over his cheek brought John back to the man over him. Tears still welled in his eyes, but they were not bad tears. They were good ones, Sherlock’s bright eyes stared down at him…watching and waiting for John to nod before he continued.

He reached to one side, pulling open a drawer to fish about and pull out a condom packet. Well, if anything, he was prepared. John could also see something else in the drawer.

“ _Lube_ in your bedside table…why Sherlock, you are wicked.” John teased gently.

John was rewarded with a blush from the man, “One never knows when they might need some…extra lubrication.”

John couldn’t help but giggle just a bit, the idea that Sherlock had lube in his bedside table was quite a scandal. Sherlock was so proper and posh…it just seemed entirely out of character for him. But, this was perhaps a testament to the secrets they still had to share.

He watched as Sherlock started to fidget with a condom packet, he reached over to till the man’s hand. Shaking his head as he pulled Sherlock’s hand back to kiss the palm softly.

“I want to feel you…”

Sherlock’s breath hitched in his chest, “John…”

“Please…” John looked up at the man pleadingly, “I…trust you…”

Sherlock swallowed hard, feeling his head nod before he’d even really finished the thought. The shaggy haired man leaned over to press another long, tender, kiss to John’s lips and then reached for the lube instead.

John watched Sherlock as he flicked open the tube and squeezed a generous amount of the gel into his palm. It was almost poetic watching Sherlock slick his own cock. The tall man was biting his lip, trying to keep it impersonal, obviously, but his cock was still hard and throbbing. John couldn’t help but watch the tender struggle there, the will of Sherlock against his own body. It was quite an erotic display, one that had John twisting his hands in the sheets, wanting to stroke the man…want to put lips on him once more.

All thoughts ground to a halt when he felt slick fingers trace between his ass cheeks. John gasped softly and his hips rolled up to better spread himself for the man he trusted implicitly over him. Sherlock watched him, carefully slicking John in preparation. It was tender and it was…more than John could have hoped for. It was this thoughtfulness from Sherlock that was still unexpected for John.

The tears that had brimmed in his eyes squeezed their way free, trailing down his cheeks as he bit back a whimper. “God...Sherlock…”

The tall man leaned over him, stroking the tears on his cheeks, “I know…” He breathed as he gently sealed his lips over John’s once more…at the same time…he guided himself into John.

John was no virgin, by any means…but the feel of Sherlock’s well slicked cock sliding right inside, with the utmost care, was enough to make John cry out quite loudly. The outburst stilled Sherlock, but John shook his head and rocked himself on Sherlock’s cock as much as he could.

That seemed to be all the encouragement that Sherlock really needed, because the man started to slowly thrust into John…picking up the pace with every little gasp and grunt of pleasure that John graced him with until the man was clinging to the sheets with desperation. Sherlock gasped and panted in time with John, the feel of John around his cock was incredible!

He couldn’t lie, of course. Sherlock had been dreaming of this moment since he’d first seen John twisting on the pole. Even his most vivid dreams, which had often left him with a sticky mess to clean up in the morning, paled in comparison to the real thing. John was glorious and sinful to the core!

Sherlock grunted with the effort of the pace, watching John’s face as the blonde man came apart under him. There were tears rolling down his face, but they weren’t from pain or displeasure. His watery eyes stared up at Sherlock, full of incomparable pleasure.

A bead of sweat worked down Sherlock’s spine, he dropped his head and pressed his forehead to John’s. Their panting in tandem as Sherlock reached between them to finally take John’s bobbing cock in hand and stroke it in time with the thrusts! John arched like he’d touched a live wire! Sherlock gasped sharply as John clenched around his cock without much warning!

“John!”

“Sherlock!”

Both names were mingled with strangled gasps and both were nearly shouted a few precious strokes before John and Sherlock orgasmed. Sherlock wouldn’t say it was the exact same time, but it was damn close. Sherlock trembled, holding himself over John as John slumped back into the sheets, both flushed from the sex…and the exertions. John swallowed as he panted, wetting his lips with his tongue. His eyes closed.

_“I love you…”_


	16. Domestic Sorrows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY, so...I'm back. Sorry about the long delay. I needed to take a breather and break and focus on me for a while. But I'm back now and I'm going to get this wrapped up for you guys, I promise. I hope you all still enjoy reading this, even if I update super slowly. I won't leave it unfinished. That's a promise. It may just take forever to be done. BUT I WILL GET IT DONE. So, thank you for being patient and waiting. You're wonderful and I love you. Okay? Okay. <3

“ _I love you.”_

“ _I love you too, John.”_

Those words...Sherlock knew he'd gotten in too far now. Too far. He couldn't stop things now. Even if he wanted to. Because the truth was...he loved John Watson.

He loved him so much...even more so in the moments that followed the exhausted admission. Even more when John insisted on another go, because dammit why not? Sherlock was more than happy to give John everything he wanted. That is what he'd promised after all. This night was John's. This was what John wanted. This was what Sherlock wanted.

John buried his face into the silken sheets of Sherlock's bed, his hands grasped desperately at the fabric as a keening moan of pleasure ripped through his lips. Sherlock gripped him by the hips, thrusting fast enough to ensure a lewd slapping noise emitted quite loudly through the flat as his hips met John's ass. John's cock throbbed as he rocked back against Sherlock's thrusts, lost in a pure sort of desire he'd long ago thought he'd never feel again.

This was exactly how John wanted to be fucked. Tender, but firm, and by someone who loved him very dearly. He wasn't sure Sherlock loved him, but he cared more than the average person. He cared enough to tenderly take John to bed after the mind-blowing blow-job on the sofa. He'd been so tender in stripping John, so careful and calm. Tender kisses had followed every lost piece of clothing. Tender words that asked if John was alright. If he wanted to continue. John had wanted nothing more than to have the taller fellow take him then. 

Sherlock grunted behind him, panting as he slipped one of his sinfully lithe hands under John to wrap around his cock. John whimpered and groaned as long fingers curled around him, slowly stroking him tenderly...then easily moving to match the pace of Sherlock's thrusting in his ass. 

“Christ... _Christ, Sherlock!_ ” John gasped, unable to help but buck between Sherlock's cock and his hand. It felt so good to be trapped by Sherlock. So good.

Sherlock hummed as some sort of non-verbal response. Clearly he agreed with John's sentiments. John arched his back and gasped as Sherlock drove his cock over his prostate over and over and over. His sinfully smooth fingers stroking John until it was unbearable any longer. 

“Sh-Sherlock!” 

That was all John managed to get out before his cock jerked in Sherlock's hand, John gripped the sheets and cried out breathlessly as he finally orgasmed. Sherlock kept thrusting, he didn't orgasm this time, well and truly sated from the blow-job and the first round of sex, until John was finished. His sides heaving and skin dampened by sweat. Sherlock leaned over John's back with one final gentle thrust, pressing a soft kiss to John's scarred shoulder.

“God...” John moaned, “Sherlock...” 

Sherlock hummed softly and smiled against John's flesh as he carefully withdrew from John's arse. John whined, feeling rather empty all of the sudden, but Sherlock's hands caressed his sides. “You are fantastic, John...” He hummed softly.

“You're bloody amazing yourself, Sherlock.” John finally mumbled as he eased himself down on the bed, mindful not to put himself on the mess he'd just made. “Sorry...about the sheets...”

Sherlock huffed softly and sat back, still panting, and gently stroked his hand over John's lower-back. He smoothed a hand through his damp hair and smiled, “Would you like me to run you a bath?”

John nodded, dozy and sated from the first tender climax he'd had in ages, “Run _us_ a bath...” He mumbled softly into Sherlock's pillow, turning his face just enough to stare at Sherlock.

“Us it is.” The lanky fellow assured, standing slowly and padding, quite nude, into the bathroom to run the water. John just smiled, he really could get used to this. This was nice...this was what he'd always wanted. Someone who gave him what he wanted...someone tender and caring. Sherlock was...well...aloof at times. But John liked this too. He didn't like being coddled. From what John could tell, even though his powers of observation were not as great as Sherlock's, Sherlock seemed to enjoy this too.

Whatever this was.

John smiled faintly to himself, contented for now. The need for his drugs forgotten for a time as he dozed in his post-sex state to wait for a nice bath with Sherlock.

Sherlock, however, sat on the edge of the tub with his head in his hands and phone balanced on one knee. 

_** 'I got involved.' SH ** _

'Involved how?' MH

_** 'We had sex.' SH ** _

_** 'And he said he loved me.' SH ** _

'What did you say?' MH

_** 'I love you.' SH ** _

His brother hadn't responded after that. Granted it had only been a few moments, but the Holmes' were notorious for answering their texts...or not at all. Sherlock's other knee bounced as he stared at his phone, shaking his head. How could he have become involved? He was meant to infiltrate and find a way to snag Moriarty...not save John Watson.

His phone buzzed and he hurried snatched it up. “What took you so--?”

“Don't speak.” Mycroft's tone was firm and Sherlock's jaw snapped shut as he swallowed hard. “You are risking years of work for one man whom you have just met. I told you, specifically, not to get involved. Did I not?” Mycroft's voice was loud, threatening, and irritated. He was furious. Sherlock couldn't recall his brother ever being so...mad. 

“I--”

“ _Shut up!”_ Mycroft snapped. There was a pause. Then a deep breath. “No. No. I am pulling you off this case, I should have never let you on it in the first place.” Mycroft inhaled deeply, “Whatever information you have is sufficient enough. You are going to put him back and forget about this. Understand?”

Sherlock felt a lump forming in his throat. “Put him back...?” His voice sounded hollow, “He's not a dog, Mycroft! I can't just leave him--”

“You will! As of tomorrow morning, John Watson is no longer your responsibility!” Mycroft snapped savagely. “In light of your recent blunder, I have made other arrangements for him.” Sherlock tensed. “Do not try to hide him, brother mine. Do not think I will not be watching you very closely.” Mycroft paused there, “Consider yourself lucky that I am giving you one last night with him. Spend it wisely.” With that said, Mycroft promptly ended the call.

Sherlock was tempted to throw his phone, break it against the wall and take off running with John to the nearest airport. But clearly he couldn't outrun Mycroft. He couldn't outrun MI6. He liked to think he could, but they were undoubtedly watching his flat and had been monitoring him ever since he agreed to this venture. Sherlock didn't know what the arrangements would be, he doubted John would come to harm...but he felt suddenly very ill. He swallowed hard, he couldn't ruin this night for John...he'd tell him everything in the morning. Sherlock set his phone aside and looked over to the bath, carefully turning the water off before padding back into his room to fetch John.

John was on the verge of sleep, clinging to Sherlock's pillow and making soft content noises that were close to snores. Sherlock smiled just a little, a sad smile...he rather liked the look of John on his bed. He buried the knowledge that he was losing John in the morning under as many layers as he could before he gently reached out and stroked a careful hand over John's shoulder.

“John, sweet, the bath is ready, come on...” 

John stirred with a short snuffle, looking up at Sherlock blearily and then smiling softly. He reached up, coaxing the tall man down for a soft kiss. “Thank you...” He mumbled and eased up off the bed to head into the bathroom.

Sherlock took a few minutes to strip the soiled sheets, then followed after John. He was hardly surprised to see the fellow had settled into the tub already. He was sprawled back in it, enjoying the hot water soothing all the aches and pains. Bruised and scarred...John still looked fantastic. He still had so much beauty in his battered form. John opened an eye, looking at Sherlock curiously.

“Well, are you gonna stand there staring or join me?” 

“Hm, well, it is a very nice view...”

“Don't get me started again, I'll have to kill you if you coax me into round four...”

Sherlock scoffed as John scooted forward so Sherlock could settle in behind him. Sherlock coaxed John back against his chest once he was relatively comfortable in the somewhat small tub.

“This was a good idea...” John mumbled as he rested back against Sherlock, for once not feeling like the used whore. He felt wanted...protected...maybe even needed. This was nice.

“The sex?”

John scoffed and shoved softly at Sherlock, “ _All_ of this. You taking me out of the club...the dinner...” He kissed Sherlock's lips softly, “...the sex.”

Sherlock smiled gently, holding John a little closer. “I'm glad you're happy.”

John hummed and settled back against Sherlock to listen to his heartbeat, unaware of the way Sherlock's heart was breaking. He wanted to tell John everything, but he didn't want to ruin what small happy moment this was for John. John probably didn't have many good memories and Sherlock refused to sully another by telling John that most of what he thought Sherlock was was a lie. 

They lapsed into silence then. John comfortable, Sherlock heartbroken. He couldn’t do this...

“John?”

“Mm?”

“I...need to tell you something.” Sherlock paused, “It's...it's very important.”

John looked up into his eyes, there was no trace of pain or the former broken man he'd first met all those nights ago. There was a spark there, a spark Sherlock knew he'd kindled into life again. He felt his throat growing tight the longer he stared into John's eyes. 

“What is it?”

“I...you see...” Sherlock swallowed hard. “I'm not...this isn't...” John stared at him expectantly, trustingly. Sherlock looked away, “This tub isn't very comfortable. We should get back to bed.” Coward. He was a coward.

John grinned at him softly and kissed his cheek with a sigh, “You're right...the water's getting cold anyway.” John groaned as he eased out of the tub and grabbed a towel to dry off. “Come one, then, let's get to bed, eh?”

Sherlock nodded meekly as he pulled the stopper and eased from the water. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he was going to tell John. Tomorrow he was going to break him. Sherlock towelled himself off as he padded after John. John paused to grab some pants, tossing Sherlock's to him as he entered the room. Then John sighed and snuggled himself up under the covers of Sherlock's bed, inviting the detective in with a smile. Sherlock couldn't deny him, so he slowly slipped in beside John, allowing the man to curl himself into his body. It was almost like a perfect fit.

“I love you, John.” Sherlock murmured softly. “Don't forget that.”

“I can assure you, I'll never forget you Sherlock.” John hummed, dozy now as he was warm and comfortable in Sherlock's arms. 

Sherlock couldn't begin to think of sleep, but he'd let John do so. Hating his brother so much for this. But no matter what Sherlock thought up, he knew it wouldn't be enough. So he contented himself with holding John, listening to his breathing grow deeper and even as sleep claimed him. He slept soundly, peacefully. Sherlock hoped he was dreaming of all the nicest things...because the morning would hardly be kind to the ex-solider.

Some time during the night, Sherlock did fall asleep. He knew because the next moment he opened his eyes, it was just shortly before dawn and John had sprawled over the bed, leaving Sherlock clinging to a narrow edge. Sherlock smiled softly, but sadly, slowly easing out of the bed. Let John rest.

Sherlock dressed.

Looked once more at John. 

Left the room. 

And started breakfast. 

He left it on the stove to stay warm while he sat in his chair and stared at the door to the flat, waiting. Inevitably someone would arrive. But when? Would it be Mycroft? Would it be his goons? Sherlock stared a long time, waiting. He wasn't sure how long it was before John stirred. He could hear the man rummaging about the room. Clearly getting dressed. A quick stop in the bathroom and John, bleary eyed, wandered into view. He smiled sleepily at Sherlock, his hair a mess from sleep.

“Morning.”

Sherlock gestured to the kitchen. “Breakfast is there. If you want it.”

“Brilliant.” John yawned as he moved to examine the breakfast. Toast and eggs. He rather liked the gesture and settled himself, carefully, at the table to eat. “My arse is bloody sore, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock felt his lips quirk up a little. “You did ask for a third go. Not my fault.”

John scoffed, but smiled as he ate, leaning over the table to examine the newspaper left there. He calmly perused the news while Sherlock watched the door. Every once in a while, John would hum about something, turn the page, and sip from his tea. It was all very domestic. He would occasionally glance over at Sherlock, but mostly they sat in silence.

Sherlock bounced his leg, watching the door anxiously. 

“Expecting company?”

“Maybe.” Sherlock glanced to John, “I'm not quite sure what I'm expecting.”

John nodded, like it made sense, and resumed his reading. Sherlock should tell him...but he couldn't bring himself to ruin this perfect domestic bliss that John was experiencing.

“John...last night...I wanted to tell you--” Sherlock began, but was cut off by a loud knock at the door.

That was all the warning Sherlock got before Greg Lestrade opened the door, his badge glinting off the dim morning light. “Sherlock Holmes, what the _hell_ is your bloody brother sending me to arrest you for now?”

 


End file.
